


The Web of Darkness

by Soledad



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Avari aren't easily surprised, Being too twisted can be disadvantageous, Cats Are Cool, F/M, Nazgûl | Ringwraiths, Not all Dark Elves Are Evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 176,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: An experiment of the Witch-King backfires, big time, and the Elves of Mirkwood find an unexpected ally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JastaElf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JastaElf/gifts).



> Originally written in 2010, as a birthdays fic for my dear friend, JastaElf. Beta read by the most generous Larner, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**PART 01**

The Nazgûl Lord withdrew from the mind of the wounded spider and killed Shelob casually, with a simple mental order. She was of no use for him anymore, and he did not want any other sorcerers to find his trail in case the creature survived her severe injury.

For a moment, he felt something akin to regret. His relationship with the creature – indeed, with Shelob's entire kind – had gone on for an Age and a half. He would miss the excitement of walking the dark corridors of their minds... the chance to learn their deepest secrets.

Granted, the Giant Spiders of Mirkwood were barely more than animals; only their ability to speak set them apart from the other foul beasts that had slowly filled the forest through the past thousands of years. But even they still possessed shards of racial memory, that reached back, way back, through the endless tunnel of time, to the birth of Ungoliant the Gloomweaver herself. And through them, the Nazgûl Lord found Shelob, whose memories, while dulled, were vast and detailed. All the Nazgûl Lord needed was to get into her mind and look for what he needed – or simply wanted – to know. Shelob was the last true descendant of Ungoliant; she might not remember all that once had been, yet the memories were still slumbering in the shadowy recesses of her mind, waiting for a skilled sorcerer to dig them out and study them.

For an entire Age had the Nazgûl Lord searched and studied those memories. He had always been fascinated by the tales of Ungoliant, the Great Spider, the mysterious entity who had been born from impenetrable darkness, had an insatiable hunger for light, murdered the Two Trees of Valinor and dared to deny Melkor himself, the first, the true Dark Lord, to whom Sauron had been a mere servant.

It was generally believed that the Nazgûl had accepted the Nine Rings because they _wanted_ to serve Sauron – out of fear, out of respect... or out of greed. Well, that might have been the reason for the other eight, but most certainly not for their leader, the one who once had been Murazor, a bastard prince from the royal house of Númenor, the second son of King Tar-Ciryatan, he who called himself Ar-Balkumagân in Adûnaic(1).

Murazor had been a young man of barely sixty – young for a long-lived Númenórean, that is – when he first sailed to Middle-earth, discontented with his status as an unacceptable bastard and hungry for power and adventure. It had taken but three more years for him to follow the call of Sauron to Mordor. Thus he had known the One Ring nearly all his life - had seen it all the time upon Sauron's hand. Understood its power... and desired it.

He had become a student of Sauron's, with the single goal to outdo his master, both in power and knowledge. He had studied the noble traditions of his own people as well as the dark arts and become a figure almost as feared, admired and hated as his master. Almost. But _almost_ was not enough for him. He wanted more. And when he finally received his Ring, becoming the very first of the Nazgûl, for a moment he actually believed that he had reached his ultimate goal.

Only to realize that he had been trapped in servitude for eternity. Indeed, he _had_ received the gift of eternal life. But it was a life in slavery, without any hope to escape.

That moment of recognition had been the birth of his immortal, unwavering hatred towards his master, fuelled by the knowledge that his existence was now forever dependant on Sauron. He could not destroy his master without destroying himself... unless he got his hands on the One Ring.

'Twas a bitter hatred, not unlike that of the first generations of Orcs towards _their_ Dark Lord, whom they served with clenched teeth and curses. But the Nazgûl Lord had once been a Man of Westernesse, and Men of that realm were a resilient lot. And cunning.

He had gotten at least _some_ satisfaction out of his status. Unrecognised by all – after all, near fifteen hundred years had gone by since his birth – he had watched Sauron standing in the cavernous council room of Armenelos, behind King Ar-Pharazôn's high throne. Had watched Sauron growing in power and influence in the court. Had watched the human sacrifices burned to ashes in Melkor's temple. Had listened to Sauron's whispers about the Undying Land and how the Men of Westernesse had the right to that... and to immortal life.

The irony of the whole situation had not been lost to him, who _had_ actually received immortal life... and now wished he had not. Not this way at least. But he did watch the drowning of Númenor, his home of old that had never accepted him, just because he had been born in the wrong bed, with grim satisfaction. The fall of the Realm of Westernesse had, in a certain sense, set him free for the new tasks that were waiting for him in Middle-earth.

He could not free himself from servitude, that much was true. But he could – and did – use his master to reach is own goals. And while Sauron was hiding or sleeping between defeat and rebirth, the Nazgûl Lord was learning and seeking tirelessly.

Oh, no, not for the Ring. As long as the One was lost and slept undetected, the Ringwraiths were more or less on their own, and he enjoyed his temporary independence. He knew it would end eventually, so he tried to make the best of it. He spent century after century with honing his skills as a sorcerer... and learning as much about Ungoliant as he could from the slumbering memories of her progeny. He knew that the true power of sorcery came from the same ageless darkness that had once given birth to the Great Spider: from Móru, the primeval night. Could he manage to find a way to tap into that darkness, no-one would be able to best him anymore. Sauron would be _his_ servant, and _he_ would be wearing the One Ring.

Deeper and deeper had he forayed into Shelob's unconscious memories, seeking his way to that unbelievable void – and found something else. Something he would never have expected.

He discovered that there was a different kind of existence; a whole new world, similar to and yet utterly different from the one he was living in – if his existence still could be called _life_. A world in which Ungoliant, or at least an entity like her, was worshipped as a dark deity by a folk that called themselves the _Drow_. Dark Elves; creatures that made him understand what Melkor might have intended when he began to turn captured Elves into Orcs.

The Nazgûl Lord loathed and despised Orcs. They were mindless beasts, driven to uncontrolled massacres, just for the sake of destruction, killing and maiming to fill their bottomless bellies and to continue their hideous race for another miserable generation. Melkor had obviously done a less than perfect job on them and Sauron, in two whole Ages, had been unable to improve them a bit.

The Nazgûl Lord felt the same disgust for his own master. Someone as obsessed with power as Sauron had been all the time should have put some effort into making better servants. At least Saruman, lying weasel though he was, had made impressive headway with his Uruk-hai breeding programme. The Uruk-hai were stunning warriors, and the Nazgûl Lord fervently hoped to get his hands on them, once Saruman had been dealt with.

But they still could not even come close to the Drow, with their artful cruelty, dark beauty and incredible abilities. All these were traits the Nazgûl Lord found worth studying. And so he decided to run an experiment – to summon a single Drow away from that other plane of existence and plant him into Middle-earth, so see what kind of havoc he would wreak with the peoples of Rhovanion.

It _had_ to be a male Drow, and a warrior, not a mage. The Nazgûl Lord did not want any competition. A sorcerer or a priestess would prove too much even for him to handle. Besides, male warriors were easier to catch outside the heavily warded boundaries of their underground cities. They were sent to the surface from time to time.

And it had to be Rhovanion. In the vastness of the Wilderland, a stranger like that could run free undetected for quite some time. And testing a Drow's abilities against Orcs, Wargs, Giant Spiders and, of course, Wood-Elves, promised to be interesting. He would put his subject through increasingly dangerous tests, and if the Drow proved himself worthy, he would bring over more of them to this plane and build his own army in Dol Guldur.

He had to act quickly, though. In a short time, he would have to empty Minas Morgul, in order to go to war against Gondor. Once the last realm of Westernesse was destroyed, its cities levelled and its remaining people enslaved, Sauron would calm down again and send him back to Dol Guldur, to keep an eye on the northern realm. By then, he would have to know whether a Drow army could be the basis of his personal power. Khamûl would keep an eye on the experience for him. But he needed to start it without delay.

He decided to travel in his true form, as a shapeless wraith. He hated doing so, for it reminded him how he had lost everything but his knowledge and willpower during the long millennia of his existence, but it was the fastest and most secret way. If he was quick enough, he could be gone and back within the day. And no-one, not even Sauron who was obsessedly looking for that Ring of his, would learn about his short absence.

"Take my belongings back to Minas Morgul," he ordered his personal servant, a mute, white-eyed slave from Far-Harad, who could get in and out without even the other Nazgûl spotting him. "And keep my chamber locked 'til I return."

Not even waiting for the man's nod, he jumped off the highest tower of Cirith Ungol and flew with the speed of thought to the North, where his true fortress, the dark tower of Dol Guldur stood, in the dense forest of Southern Mirkwood.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt Do'Urden of the ancient house of _Daernon N'shezbaernon_ had completely succumbed to the primeval hunter that had been trying to take over his body and soul for a very long time. He had become a creature of pure instinct now; a survivor against all odds, a predator among other predators. He even ceased to remember the times when he had been something else. Something more.

He no longer knew how long he had led this solitary existence of hunting and being hunted; of killing in order to avoid being killed. He no longer knew that he was still young for a Drow Elf and could go on this way, like some mindless beast, for another four hundred years, if not more. He had forgotten having ever been anything – or anyone – else: a person of conscience of strong principles, which in itself had been quite the contradiction for a Drow Elf.

Drow Elves were born of chaos, lived in chaos and served the chaos that manifested in the malevolent figure of Lloth(2), the Spider Queen – an evil deity to whom especially the females of their race were completely devoted. In any case, females held the power in Drow society. As priestesses of Lloth, they ruled over life and death... especially over death. Males only existed to serve their purposes in the eternal struggle for more power and influence... and to beget their children, preferably female ones. Chaos, power struggle and fear were the three major characteristics of Drow society, indoctrinated deeply into the very soul of each Dark Elf – assumed that they _had_ a soul to begin with; a possibility that many other races adamantly denied. A Drow with conscience and moral principles, like the one Drizzt had once been, was an anomaly; an extreme rare case.

He had been born in Menzoberranzan, one of the major Drow cities in the Underdark, as the third son of the Matron of House Do'Urden, a moderately important family of that city. As no noble family had need for a third living son, it had been decided that he would be sacrificed to Lloth, right after birth, to gain the Spider Queen's favour in his family's private little war against House Hu'nett; a struggle that had just reached its temporary peak and needed to be decided to their advantage quickly.

Fortunately for him, his brother Dinin decided in their very moment of triumph that the time had come for him to become the elderboy of House Do'Urden and killed their eldest brother in order to make room for himself. Lloth apparently accepted the sacrifice, and thus Drizzt escaped an early death, rising to secondboy status – not that it would have meant much.

In the first ten years of his life, he had been raised – and indoctrinated to accept his inferior position as a male child – by his sister Vierna, who hated being his wean-mother for it delayed her studies with the ambitious goal to become a High Priestess one day. After six more years as a page prince, he was finally officially acknowledged as the secondboy of House Do'Urden and entrusted to Zaknafein, his House's weapons master – who also happened to be his father. Zaknafein not only taught him unparalleled weapons skills, he also showed him the wrongness of the Drow way. He taught Drizzt to listen to his conscience and to cling to his morals and principles; and he had taught his son so well that not even the corrupt doctrines of Melee-Magthere, the training school of Drow warriors, could break the lingering goodness of him. And Zaknafein had even died for him, willingly – _twice_ – to make his escape from the Underdark possible.

His wanderings in the surface world brought him to Icewind Dale, where he found what he had always longed for: a true home and faithful friends. But those friends were short-lived compared with him, and he was still a young Drow of barely a hundred and some years (he never found out exactly how many years he had spent alone in the Underdark after fleeing the city of his birth) when the last of them died: Catti-brie, the human girl adopted by a Dwarf king. The first one to approach him, to trust him, to befriend him. The last one to leave him.

But leave him she did, inevitably, and he returned to the mountain slopes above Ten-Towns, to the rocky cave that had been his hide-out upon his arrival, with only Guenwhyvar as his company. There he spent lonely years, guarding humans and Dwarves below, fighting Orcs, trolls, tundra yetis and any other monster that came his way. Until that fateful day when he accidentally dropped the onyx figurine – it just slipped through his half-frozen fingers, right under the heavy foot of a mountain troll. The faint crack as it was shattered to a thousand pieces under the troll's enormous weight severed his last tie to the rest of the world(3).

In that moment, the hunter took over again, and this time completely. He killed the troll in a blur of slashing scimitars and gathered every onyx shard of what once had been a magical item but was only useless rubbish now, in a futile attempt to try and put them together again.

But there was no help. The magic was broken forever. He would never be able to call his oldest, truest friend – his _only_ friend now – from the Astral Plane. He was truly, utterly alone. Drizzt Do'Urden embraced the hunter and welcomed the darkness of his existence. Giving in to the hunter meant no dreams, no memories, and he did not want to remember the short happier years of his life. Remembering what he had lost would have been too painful.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He who had once been the Sorcerer-king of Angmar had been watching his chosen subject for quite some time. Until recently, the war plans of his overlord had not cost him much of his time, and without the reappearance of the One Ring he might have spent more of it with careful preparations. But now he was needed to lead the armies of Mordor against the last stalwart tower of Westernesse, and he knew he needed to launch the experience ahead of time. This displeased him greatly, but he could not openly defy Sauron – not yet, anyway – and neither could he delay to go to battle any longer.

Khamûl, the lieutenant of Dol Guldur and his only confidant in this matter, did not like the timing at all.

"Even if your spell works, who knows where the Drow will surface?" he argued. "I am to lead the armies of the North against the Wood-Elves, the Dwarves and the Lake-men, soon, as you know. I shall have no time to look for one Dark Elf, lost in the forest."

"You shall not have to look for him," his captain replied. "He will come to you. My summoning will call him directly to Dol Guldur, with an irresistible pull. He cannot do aught but follow it, whether he wants or not."

"And what am I supposed to do with him, once he arrived?" asked Khamûl sarcastically. He had once been a great chieftain of the Easterlings; he wanted to lead armies, not to nursemaid lost Elves – not even if they were evil.

"Use him," the Nazgûl Lord replied simply. "Dow Elves are excellent warriors, and they hate their surface cousins deeply. Send him into battle against them and test his skills. Ere I bring over more of them, I wish to see if they are truly worth the effort. Whether they are as good and efficient in a world where their mere reputation does not make everyone flee in terror as they are in their own."

"I hope they are," said Khamûl sourly. "We shall need our own army of useful, reliable warriors to hold the North securely.

"In Sauron's name," added the Nazgûl Lord in a manner that lacked every shrad of sincerity.

"But for our own advantage," finished Khamûl.

The two Ringwraiths were content with their intrigue. It was a good plan, and with any other Drow, it would most likely have worked out beautifully. What they did not know was the fact that they had selected the only Dark Elf who would doom their plan to fail utterly.

'Twas not their fault, though. They could not know that Drizzt Do'Urden was _not_ like your average Drow.

"Leave me now," said the Nazgûl Lord with understandable (albeit misplaced) confidence. "I need to cast the spell without delay."

Khamûl was all too glad to leave. He might have been a Ringwraith for uncounted centuries, but deep within, he still was a simple monster. He revelled in armies and weapons and war and killing – and generally causing as much pain and wreaking as much havoc as possible – and did not care for sorcery at all. Spells could easily backfire, and the results often got out of hand. He preferred the old-fashioned ways.

Solidifying his body by sheer willpower, the Nazgûl Lord retrieved the heavy tome of his most secret and dangerous spells. He laid it open on the table and leaned over it, focusing in the dark powers living within him. The spell had to be cast perfectly – bridging two different planes of existence was one of the hardest things a sorcerer could try.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
There it was again: the slight tug he had often felt lately, like an invisible hook that caught the deepest, darkest corners of his soul. As if a malevolent being – an _illithid_ of some sort – would have entered his mind, like at the time when he had been captured by the mind-flyers in the deep caverns of the Underdark. It was a feeling that had haunted him for... he could not even remember for how long.

At first he thought it was the hunter getting stronger, and he offered no resistance. What for? He _was_ the hunter now, and the stronger the hunter was getting, the better were the chances of his survival. But after a while, he began to suspect that this... this _force_ came from the outside. It was a lot more subtle than the intrusion of the _illithid_... as if the intruder wanted to conceal its actions. But Drow Elves were all trained to recognize – and repel – mind attacks. And he began to resist.

That was the hardest thing he had ever done. He did not want the intruder to realize that he had discovered the intrusion. So he played a slow, patient cat-and-mouse game with his unknown enemy. He never knew whether his adversary knew it or not – until it returned with a brutal force that wiped away his resistance.

This time, he could do nothing against the violent pull of all-encompassing darkness.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Alagos had been tracking down Half-tooth for several days. King Thranduil's favourite hunting lynx was a proud and stubborn creature, and – despite his broken fang – capable of fighting against any other male lynx for the favour of a chosen female... and winning. The King wanted to breed him with a female of his choice, but Half-tooth had his own ideas and simply bolted at the beginning of the mating season.

The royal huntsman was devastated, of course, but Thranduil just laughed and sent Alagos after the noble beast. Who would have a better chance to find Half-tooth in the woods than Alagos, his chief tracker. Alagos, who had roamed Mirkwood for three Ages... and some more.

Alagos, whose name meant "Storm of Wind", was one of the Faithful - the Elves who had refused to follow the call of the Valar and never left the forests of their birth. The other Elves called them Avari, the Unwilling or the Refusers; it was meant as an insult, but the Faithful were proud of it. Of their unique bond with the forests and the trees. Some of them had mingled with other Elven kindred during the past Ages – thus bringing forth their somewhat less secretive cousins, the Wood-Elves – but some of their clans still kept the old customs, while accepting Thranduil as their King.

Alagos was not one of those who had awakened at the waters of Cuiviénen, but his parents had been. Right now, he was the most ancient Elf in Mirkwood, save from Old Galion, the King's seneschal, who modestly called himself a butler but was more, much more. He had come to Thranduil's court with the following of the late Queen Lálisin – and never for a moment regretted doing so. King Thranduil – and before him his father, King Oropher – might have been Sindarin princes, but they had fully embraced the simple life of the woodland folk and had successfully protected their realm for two Ages. Even if said realm had to be moved repeatedly northwards and was now but a shard of its former greatness.

Alagos had moved with the realm twice. He had seen Lasgalen, King Oropher's beautiful tree city, being built – and abandoned again when the threat from the South grew too strong. He had seen King Thranduil's caves being carved out of living rock by the Dwarves of the Grey Mountains, back in the times when there still _had_ been Dwarven cities in the Ered Mithrin. He had been the tutor and weapons master of Thranduil's sons, all four of them, and he had fought in the Battle upon Dagorlad, where the three older ones were slain, in the vain effort to protect their royal grandfather.

Yes, King Thranduil had suffered terrible losses, not all of them due to battle. His only living son was away in the South, on some dangerous quest right now, and Alagos had watched his King grow pale and worn with concern for moons. All the more he was determined to retrieve the adventurous Half-tooth. To bring his Lord at least some small joy in these dark times.

Finding the lynx in the woods was no great difficulty for an experienced tracker who had honed his sills in woodcraft for at the very least seven millennia. Half-tooth generously marked territory on his way, and the scent was easy to follow. Alagos moved forward in the trees, noiselessly like a ghost; the branches willingly parted before him, giving him a clear path, and closed again protectively behind him. He was one of the Faithful. He and the forest were _one_.

He had hunted Half-tooth for days, and the scent grew gradually stronger. He knew he would succeed, soon. But in this morning, he picked up another scent, one that he had never sensed before. He could not even guess to what kind of creature it could belong. But he knew what unknown dangers meant and decided to investigate. The new scent went parallel with that of Half-tooth, so the tracker could follow both his goals at the same time.

Half-tooth was the first that he found. Later in the afternoon, the scent led Alagos into a small grassy glade surrounded by knotted and gnarled old oak trees. There the great lynx was lazing on his belly, next to the pliant shape of a Man or Elf, licking that person's face.

Alagos narrowed his eyes, understanding that he had also found the source of the new, previously unknown scent. He inched forward on the huge bench to get a better view... and froze.

The creature lying upon the grass was shaped like a Wood-Elf: tall and slender, but less so than the Eldar, long-limbed and most likely very agile... if conscious. He even had the sharp, angular face and the elegant, pointed ears of an Elf. But his skin was black like the starless night – like that of an Orc, in fact – and he had a thick mat of white hair. Truly white, like that of Old Galion's, not silver like that of the Sindarin nobles of the court.

Alagos chewed his lower lip in concern. No, he had never seen any such creature in his seven-thousand-and-some years of existence. He had not even _heard_ of such beings. What kind of creature could it be? The unholy fruit of a forced union between an Elf and an Orc? No, that could not be. Elves died if violated, and this creature was beautiful in its dark way. Orcs had no beauty.

Unable to decide what he was dealing with, the tracker chose to wait and watch the creature for a while.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When he came to, Drizzt felt something wet and raspy licking his face. Carefully opening his eyes, his look met that of feline eyes – rather large ones.

"Guenwhyvar?" he murmured hopefully.

But no, it could not be. Guenwhyvar was gone, lost to him, trapped forever on the Astral Plane. He would never see the panther again. Never.

Yet it _was_ a cat. A large one, with tufted ears, and a stump instead of a tail. The stump did not look like the result of an injury, though. Perhaps this was what the cat was supposed to look like: having a stump tail _and_ tufted ears. A predator, definitely. A friendly one, apparently. And it – _he_ , Drizzt decided after a closer look – seemed to crave company. _Elven_ company, perhaps, but a Drow would serve as a substitute, according to his behaviour, for he rolled onto his back expectantly and purred in delight when Drizzt scratched his belly. The Drow felt a strange pang of homesickness, but also a little comfort. No, this was _not_ Guenwhyvar; the panther was gone and would never return. But it _was_ a cat, a hunting cat, and the touch of his thick, soft fur gave Drizzt the illusion that he was not completely alone - for a moment, at least.

"What are you doing here, my light-footed friend?" he murmured in the Drow tongue. "Are you on the hunt? For food or for a mate? Or are you on your way home?"

The feline eyes narrowed in pleasure as he scratched and rubbed the beautiful beast's belly. But after a while, the cat rolled onto his feet again and laid a large front paw upon Drizzt's knee as if trying to catch his attention.

"What do you want me to do, friend cat?" asked Drizzt, for it was clear that the animal wanted something.

The cat tilted his head to the side, his tufted ears and long, white whiskers trembling. Then he withdrew his paw, turned around and trotted away with deliberate slowness.

Drizzt sighed. He would have loved to follow the cat, to have some company again, even though this noble beast could not be compared with his treasured magical friend. But the cat's path led to the East, and the strong pull Drizzt had felt from the moment on he had come by came from the South. He knew not what would await him there. All he knew was that he _had_ to follow that summoning. He had no other choice. Or so he thought.

And thus he gathered his meagre belongings: a cloak and a water flask that had somehow found the way with him there, wherever he might be, and looked around for a path to the South. He found one after some searching. It was narrow and almost completely buried in the undergrowth. But it would have to do.

Barely had he gone a few tentative steps, though, when an unexpected whirlwind of fur and muscle hit him squarely in the chest. He lost his balance and fell, landing on his back -- and that not very softly. The cat stood above him, two large paws pressing against his chest, growling angrily.

That a mere beast – for the cat was _not_ a magical one, he could feel that clearly – had been able to catch him unaware was a surprise. An unpleasant one. After all that he had learned from Montolio, the ancient, blind ranger, he should have heard the cat's approach. He should have _felt_ it. Yet he had not... and _that_ was alarming and strange. If not the ranger’s well-honed skills, then at least the primeval hunter's infallible instincts should have warned him.

Why had that not happened? And where _was_ he anyway? This forest, thick and dark and ancient, could be no-where near his hide-out of old. How had he come here in the first place? Could it be that in a longer period of stupor, when the hunter had been in control, he had walked off this far? No; he knew the landscape around Icewind Dale too well to believe that. This was no-where near Icewind Dale... or any other place he'd previously known. But what was this place then? And, more importantly, _where_ was it?

He felt the strong pull again, and the urge to follow it grew stronger. He had to go. Gently, carefully, he pushed the great cat aside and clambered to his feet, turning to the southern path again. He could do nothing else.

But he hadn't counted on the cat's stubbornness. To his surprise, a strong maw caught his ankle and began to pull him backwards. The cat's hold was strong but careful; the sharp teeth did not break his skin but held him securely. The cat's eyes narrowed to angry slits, the long whiskers bristled. It was very obvious that the good beast was against the idea of going South; he wanted Drizzt to follow him to the East instead.

Drizzt considered his options. The cat seemed determined to bring him off the southern path; the Drow could fight him, of course, and most likely defeat him. But he was without doubt a good beast, and Drizzt did not want to harm him. Besides, he was apparently at home in this strange forest, while Drizzt was a stranger - and lost. Perhaps there was something dark and dangerous in the South, and the pull Drizzt felt was but an evil spell to lure him to his death.

Not that he feared death. In his current state of mind, he would even welcome it. But the cat wanted him to avoid that path, and he had a weak spot for cats. He wanted to learn more about this one. What could he lose if he followed the cat? He could always turn back to the South later.

"Very well, friend cat," he murmured. "Let us try your way first. Go on; I shall follow."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
High up in the impenetrable crown of an ancient oak, Alagos watched the events unfolding before his eyes with great amazement. As a rule, Half-tooth was not a very trusting creature... or a particularly friendly one, not even with Wood-Elves. He accepted King Thranduil as his master – most of the time, that is – he generously tolerated Prince Legolas for the King's sake, and he showed some wary respect to Alagos, like one hunter would to another. Everyone else, he ignored at best, and curious elflings soon learned to leave him alone; for he could slash at one unexpectedly and lightning-fast, and his claws were razor-sharp.

For Half-tooth to all but adopt a complete stranger, and one belonging to a previously unknown race, was more than unusual. What could have triggered his protective act? For Alagos knew all too well where that southern path would ultimately lead after crossing uncounted miles of dark, unfriendly forest and even the Mountains of Mirkwood: to Amon Lanc, the Naked Hill, where the most northern fortress of the Enemy stood. Dol Guldur this fortress was called, the Necromancer's Tower – or Dol Dúgol, in the ancient dialect of the Faithful, the Tower of Evil Magic.

At first Alagos had been concerned that the stranger seemed so determined to tread the southern path. Was he one of the Enemy's creatures, after all? 'Twas not entirely impossible; ever since that wretched little creature had escaped the Wood-Elves' care, the Enemy's power had been growing steadily. The shadow of Dol Dúgol had been stretching northwards all the time. Never before had Orcs, Wargs, Giant Spiders and only Kémi knew what other fell beasts bothered the woodland realm so much. Not since the Last Alliance.

And yet the stranger seemed not to act on his own volition. It looked more as if he had tried to follow a summon too strong to resist. Perhaps he stood under the spell of the _Úlairi_ ; few would be able to resist the enchantment of their leader who once had been the Witch-king of Angmar, the most powerful sorcerer that had ever walked Middle-earth. Alagos was one of these few, for he was older than the Sun and the Moon, and his roots in the earth were deep, his connection to the trees and good beasts was strong. But the stranger, whoever he was – _what_ ever he was – could clearly not be from here, thus the strength of earth and forest could not support him against the _Úlairi_ 's foul witchcraft.

And yet he _had_ turned away from the southern path and followed Half-tooth to the East – that showed strength as well as wisdom, and that he had reason (or so he thought) to trust the lynx. Mayhap he had learned to trust cats for some reason. In any case, he was walking with Half-tooth for the time being, and that could lead to further complications.

For the eastern path, too, was well-known to Alagos. It was roughly the same route _he_ had followed during his search for Half-tooth... just from the other direction. It was the path that led to the Enchanted River where it joined the Forest River, and, eventually, to the King's underground fortress. Half-tooth was taking his new friend home.

Alagos' own choices were woefully limited in the matter. He could send alarms with the help of trees and friendly birds and rouse the patrols – that way he could intercept the stranger ere he came too close to the King's home. Or he could follow him and watch him and confront him on his own when the time was right.

He chose the second opinion. He could feel that the stranger was an able and dangerous fighter – a hostile confrontation could cause losses the Would-Elves could not afford, not when they were on the brink of an all-out war with the Enemy. Besides, he wanted to learn more about the stranger first. Thus he sent word to the King that he had found Half-tooth and would return the good beast shortly, and followed the unlikely friends through the treetops, noiselessly and invisibly like a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Part of the Witch-king’s past (particularly his origins) was invented by a firm called Iron Crown Enterprises who specialize in role-playing games, so it is not genuine Tolkien. However, if Stephen Geard found it good enough to include into his “Complete Chronology of Númenor, I thought I can accept it as well. The rest if my invention.  
> (2) The official name of the Spider Queen is Lolth. However, according to Wikipedia (and R. Salvatore’s books) she is called Lloth in the Drow tongue.  
> (3) Yes, I kow that the figurine of Guenwhyvar is supposed to be unbreakable, unless by some very strong magic. But I could not use the panther in Middle-earth, so I decided to bend canon a little.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's court is made up of a bunch of original characters that appear in all my Mirkwood-related stories. Thranduil's background as being the grandson of Elmö, the youngest brother of Elu Thingol and Olwë, the King of Alqualondë, is my invention. In my little corner of the Ardaverse, he's also the son of Nellas of Doriath (a Nandor Elf, Túrin's friend) and a first-cousin of Celeborn.
> 
> Half-tooth is a more or less common European lynx ( **[Lynx lynx](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_lynx)** ), just a great deal larger. According to research, lynxes can grow as heavy as 60 pounds, but I assumed that a beast bred in Mirkwood would be considerably bigger. Imagine him to have roughly the size of a lion.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PART 02**

The cat led him along hidden paths under the ancient trees that only someone very familiar with the forest could find. 'Twas a little known path, even among the woodland people, and ran almost straight from the West to the East, crossed the Enchanted River roughly at its middle and continued to the halls of King Thranduil – a fact so far unknown to the lonely and lost Drow. He simply trusted the cat and hoped to be led somewhere with a safe hiding place.

This was the darkest, most forbidding forest he had seen in his entire life; densely grown and eerily silent. The land was sloping up a little, and the silence seemed to draw upon them like a living thing – the only living thing under those great, over-hanging boughs, for not even the night-eyes of a Drow could find any deer or even rabbits in that gloomy darkness. The tree-trunks were huge and gnarled, the branches twisted, the leaves dark and long. Ivy grew on the trees and trailed along the ground as if it tried to bring unwary travellers to fall, for whatever reason of its own.

Drizzt had the feeling as if invisible, malevolent entities would watch them from the trees as the narrow path wound in and out among the trunks. The quiet was so deep now that his own feet seemed to slam onto the ground with a loud _thump_ , for all that the Dark Elves were light-footed and could move around noiselessly in any environment. The cat seemed alert, too, its tufted ears erect and turning to a different direction every other moment. He did not seem nervous or frightened, though, just watchful, thus Drizzt guessed that they were in no imminent danger.

He allowed the hunter to emerge, for he knew he would need his finely-honed instincts at their peak if he wanted to survive this unexpected journey. Surprisingly even for himself, he _did_ want to live, at least 'til he could figure out what had happened to him and where he had landed. He was still very young for a Drow – and still curious. This was a wholly new world for him, and he found he wanted to learn more about it.

The overall dimness was no true challenge for the keen senses of a Dark Elf. His darkvision penetrated it easily, and he watched the tangled boughs and matted twigs above his head with growing wariness. For while all he could truly see were glimpses of black squirrels whisking off the path and scutting behind tree-trunks, there were noises that could _not_ have been caused by such small and quick animals: grunts, scufflings and hurrying in the undergrowth. At some places, fallen and rotting leaves lay on the forest floor in thick layers, inhabited by creatures he could not see - and he would not _want_ to see, either. Some things were better left alone.

The only other visible things were cobwebs: dark, dense cobwebs, with threads as thick as a rope, often stretched from tree to tree, or tangled in the lower branches on either side of them. The thought of spiders that could make webs of _that_ size made Drizzt very uncomfortable. It brought back unpleasant memories of Menzoberranzan and the cruel cult of Lloth, the Spider Queen, the evil deity of his people. Never before had he considered the existence of such giant spiders, not outside of the dark chapels of the city of his birth; and he could never know how much of what he had seen inside them had been real and how much illusion, created by foul sorcery.

 _These_ cobwebs were frighteningly real, though, and Drizzt did his best to keep away from them. At least none of them stretched _across_ the path, and that comforted him a little. He wondered whether some magic kept the path clear or the spiders were afraid of the people who trod the path regularly; and whether - if the latter was the case – he was on his way now to meet those people. He hoped so. He had been alone for so long that even a hostile encounter would have been a relief at this point.

He assumed the fall of night would make no difference in this overall darkness, but he was soon proved wrong. At nightfall, the forest became so pitch-black that even the darkvision of a Drow could barely make out the outlines of the trees along the path. He had not experienced anything like that since leaving the Underdark, and his discomfort grew steadily. The similarities were... unsettling, at best. Just like in the deep pits of the Underdark, there was no movement of air under the forest roof and it was still and stuffy. After having spent half of his life on the surface, Drizzt now felt that he was being slowly suffocated.

And yet this dense darkness seemed to be populated, for he could see eyes watching them from within the trees: yellow or red or green eyes, gleaming in the night, from smaller or greater distances, sometimes alone and sometimes in small clusters. They faded after a while, only to reappear in another places. And there were pale, bulbous eyes that gleamed down from the branches above. Those he recognized, and he shuddered in disgust. Those were spider eyes.

There were moments when he asked himself whether the cat had led him into a trap, but he dismissed the idea every time. The good beast seemed every bit as uncomfortable as he felt himself, but at least it also seemed to know both the path and their destination. Thus Drizzt chose to stay with it every time his doubts re-emerged; more so as he could feel the pull towards south ease a little bit, the more they continued eastwards.

Thusly they continued their journey, hungry and thirsty, for there were neither streams nor springs near the path, and not even the cat dared to go under the trees to hunt. Drizzt doubted if there was anything edible at all. Even if they could catch one of the black squirrels, he suspected that its meat would not agree with them; and the only other living things he could see were black moths and bats. He just hoped they would not starve to death or die from thirst ere they would reach the place where the cat obviously wanted to go.

On what he thought was the fourth morning in this dark forest, the path unexpectedly ran straight into a river that blocked it squarely. The river water flowed fast and strong, but its bed was not very wide right across the path. It could not be more than twelve _elles_ (twelve times the length of a Drow Elf's forearm), but was sill more than he could have jumped safely since he had lost his ability to levitate. And the water itself was black – or so it seemed in the gloom.

Had he been alone, he might have drunk from it nonetheless, for the thirst had become truly torturous by then. But the way the cat kept away from the water made him cautious, guessing – rightly, as it would turn out later – that something was wrong with it. Still, they needed to cross the river somehow, and Drizzt started to look out for some means by which to do so.

Yet all he found were the remnants of a wooden bridge that had once spanned the river, now naught but the broken and rotting posts near the bank. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to wade the river, or swim across it somehow, perhaps with the help of some fallen tree. He was not he best of swimmers, to put it mildly.

He had already begun to take off his boots – there was no need to make them wet if he could avoid it – when the feeling of being watched suddenly intensified tenfold.

" _Daro_!" called a voice, hard and yet melodious at the same time.

Forgetting his boots, Drizzt snatched his scimitars and whirled around like a cornered predator, looking out for his enemy.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Alagos had followed Half-tooth and the creature all the way, watching, learning. He realized that the creature – for he still could not give it any other name – was moving on pure instinct now and kept well out of its eyesight... which was excellent, based on the speed with which it moved through the almost complete darkness. Like most ancient Elves, Alagos, too, was night-sighted, meaning that he could see by the tiniest amount of light, like, for example, the faint gleam the eyes of a nocturnal animal would provide. But the stranger apparently could see in what to Alagos seemed complete darkness, too – and that was something no other being in Middle-earth was capable of, not even the Orcs. Save the _Úlairi_ , mayhap, but their sight came from a different plan of existence, so it did not count.

The chief tracker considered the possible advantages that having an ally with such unusual vision could mean. If he managed to figure out who – or _what_ – the stranger was, what its intentions might be... if he could somehow win it for the woodland folk... it was well worth the try. And as Half-tooth was leading it the way Alagos needed to tread himself, there would be definite opportunities for that. He _had_ to figure it all out ere they came too close to the King's halls... or kill the stranger. He would regret it, but he could not take the risk of allowing a spy to enter the very heart of the Woodland Realm.

He wished the stranger would speak more often, for the few words it had uttered so far left a nagging familiarity in him that he could not explain. He could not understand any of the words, of course, but cadence and sound reminded him both of his own ancient dialect _and_ the Black Speech. Which should have been impossible; and yet it was so. Mayhap he would need to discuss it with Maelduin the Sage, the King's chief counsellor and lore-master, once he returned home. 

Now, however, he had to watch the stranger who stubbornly refused to speak any more. Which made sense, actually, Alagos thought while travelling among the densely-grown branches and avoiding spiders and cobwebs with practiced ease. One did better treading the Elf-path of Mirkwood quietly and quickly, and the stranger, adapting to Half-tooth's behaviour, was doing exactly that. No word, no fire... no food and no water. Half-tooth had hunted and eaten before finding the stranger, Alagos had found proof of that, but as far as he could tell, the creature had not eaten – or drunk or slept, for that matter – ever since being found by the lynx.

That was a remarkable feat. One Alagos would have been capable of himself, of course, had he not been smart enough to bring _lembas_ and water with him, but still remarkable. Another proof for the stranger's Elvish – or Orcish – origins, as mere mortals could not have endured so long. But he still could not tell which one of the two. Thus he decided to confront the stranger as soon as they reached the Enchanted River... which would happen any moment now.

He watched with interest how the creature, once again, adapted to Half-tooth's behaviour and did not try to drink from the black water, although thirst must have been tormenting it terribly by now. He saw that the stranger was looking for a way to cross the river. Half-tooth would simply jump from broken bridge post to broken bridge post, but the rotting wood would never hold the weight of a grown Man. Or Elf. Or Orc. Or whatever the stranger might be.

The creature seemed to realize that fact, too, for it began to pull off its boots, with the obvious intention of wading or swimming across. Now _that_ would have been a foolish act, as the Enchanted River was deep and treacherous, and even without its foul magic, it could pull anyone down who was unfamiliar with its trickery. And Alagos would _not_ allow the stranger to drown... not before learning everything that was there to learn about it, that is.

" _Daro_!" he cried out, sprinting down along the path to keep the fool from touching the water. He cold not expect to be understood, but he hoped that the other would at least hear the warning in his voice.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
" _Daro_!" the clear voice said again, and through Drizzt did not know the meaning of the word, it was obviously a command or a warning.

He stole a glance at the cat who perked up his ears in a manner that could only be called expectant. He obviously knew that voice and the person it belonged to and saw no reason for concern. That did not mean that Drizzt had no reason for concern, though. As much as he believed himself to be good at judging the character of animals, he _could_ be deceived.

"Show yourself!" he demanded, slowly backing towards the water to jump in if he had to.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, in distance, someone jumped down from a tree onto the path, spreading his empty hands as if wanting to show his peaceful intentions.

By his appearance he had to be a surface Elf of some sort. A Wood-Elf, most likely, as he was clad in rough greens and browns, in strong linen and supple leather, and had a hunting bow and a full quiver strapped to his back – and throwing knives on his belt. His rich auburn hair was tightly braided off his face, revealing elegantly pointed ears: an unmistakable proof of his Elven heritage. His face was hard and angular in all its Elven fairness, and it seemed to glow from the inside under his tan. His eyes were long and slanted, greenish-brown and very bright, like ripe, polished chestnuts. Aside from the bow and quiver, he was also carrying a small bundle on his back, presumably holding the necessities for a hunting trip.

Proving Drizzt's guess true, the cat trotted over to the newcomer and rubbed his head against one green-clad knee. The Elf scratched him between the tufted ears, patted him on the flank and said something that Drizzt could not understand, albeit the sound was vaguely familiar... but again, were not all Elven tongues related to each other somehow? The cat obediently scurried out of the way, and the Elven archer slowly, ever so slowly, let the bundle slip from his back and right into his hands. He took something that was obviously a waterskin and a small package that was wrapped in green leaves out of the bundle, made a few slow, tentative steps forward and laid both onto the ground, in the middle of the path, without taking his eyes off the Drow for as much as a heartbeat's length.

He pointed at the leaf-wrapped package and mimed eating. Then he pointed at the river and shook his head vehemently. Finally, he pointed at the waterskin and mimed drinking. After that, he backed off, returning to his previous position.

Drizzt understood the meaning all too well. Drinking from the water was apparently dangerous – he had figured out that much by himself already. The Elf offered him food and drink that was safe instead... unless it was a trap. The Elf was armed to the teeth and looked like someone who could use every single one of his weapons masterfully.

But now that food and drink were within reach, hunger and thirst became overwhelming. Drizzt knew he had to eat and drink... or die. Still, he hesitated to go any closer to this unknown Elf, to drop his defences, to risk being killed. The instincts of the hunter were too strong. There was another way to get the precious offerings, though.

"Friend cat," he murmured hoarsely, "You have been a good guide and companion. Would you do me one last favour?"

The cat tilted his head to the side as if considering his request... or trying to understand it, Drizzt could not tell. But the good beast came to a decision quickly, leaving the Elven archer's side, picking up the waterskin carefully and trotting over to him with it. Keeping an eye on the other Elf still, Drizzt put away his scimitars and poured some water into his palm for the cat ere he would drink his full. The Elven archer did not move a finger all the time.

When they had both had some water to take the edge off their thirst, the cat playfully ran back for the leafy package and dropped it before Drizzt feet, obviously expecting more water as a reward. Drizzt did as the cat expected him to do, drank some more himself, and then, still warily, opened the wrapping. Inside, there were a handful of very thin cakes, crisp and light brown on the outside, soft and creamy within. A bit doubtfully, he broke off a crisp corner and nibbled at it.

Previously unknown flavour exploded on his tongue, almost making him sway with the sheer delight of it. This was better than any food he had ever eaten before, though he could not tell for his life whether the taste was sweet or spicy or both. He only knew that his weariness seemed to dissipate with every crumb he ate and even his thoughts seemed to clear up, forcing the hunter back into a distant corner of his heart, allowing the civilized being to emerge.

He heard quiet laugher and saw that the archer had come closer while he was eating, though still not close enough to make him feel cornered. A slender, brown hand reached out, and a long finger pointed at the thin wafers.

" _Lembas_ ," the Elf said, obviously naming the wondrous food, and Drizzt nodded and repeated almost reverently.

" _Lembas_ ," adding in his own tongue, even though the other could not understand him. "It is very good. Thank you."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Alagos let the stranger eat his entire reserve of _lembas_ – he did not need food for the day, and they could reach a well-established outpost by nightfall, if necessary. The fact that the creature was not only capable of eating _lembas_ but obviously also enjoyed it a great deal spoke of a good being. Orcs and other foul beasts usually found the waybread of Elves suffocating.

Seen this close, the stranger did in fact look like a male Elf – well, save from the colour of his skin, his hair and his eyes. Those were the most peculiar eyes Alagos had ever seen: deep purple like irises or the blossoms of lavender. But he could not find any malevolence in them; just deep sadness and a profound feeling of loss. Whoever the stranger was, he had obviously suffered a lot.

In the meantime, the _lembas_ was gone, but the stranger handed him back the waterskin still half full, guessing apparently that they would need it for the rest of their daily journey. The tracker appreciated the careful handling of precious resources and decided that it was time to learn more about this dark yet not evil creature. Pointing at his own chest, he spoke slowly and clearly: "Alagos."

The stranger seemed to understand it at once, for he repeated the gesture, saying what had to be his name: "Drizzt. Drizzt Do'Urden."

That confused Alagos for a moment, as Elves usually introduced themselves only by the name they used, but he came to the conclusion that Do'Urden was probably a paternal addition or the name of the stranger's House. In which case he had to be some sort of noble, as only nobles had a House, whatever race they might belong to.

"Drizzt?" he asked a bit uncertainly, and the other nodded, signalling that it would be enough.

"Alagos," he replied with a faint smile that lit up his dark features.

The tracker wished he had the gift of _bespeaking_ others; it would have made things so much easier. But one could not choose one's talents. He would take this... take Drizzt Do'Urden to the King's halls, where Mistress Cordophel, the nurse of the royal family who _did_ have that rare gift, would be able to make the connection. Or the King himself. Thranduil's gift was not as strong, but he could reach people from mind to mind if he had to.

That was, of course, if Alagos could make Drizzt to go with him.

The stranger now touched his hand lightly to get his attention.

"Drizzt Do'Urden," he repeated. Then, pointing at his own dark hand and his white mane, he added. " _Drow_."

Alagos understood. The stranger apparently belonged to a race that was called the Drow... whatever they might be. He nodded to show his understanding; then he pointed at his own ear.

" _Kwende_ ," he said. Pointing at his hair and his garb, he added. " _Alchoron_."

Those were the oldest names for Elves ever, _Quendi_ being a generalization, meaning all Elves, especially at a time when the Eldar left for Valinor. _Alchoron_ was the name of Dark-Elves; for the Faithful who refused to leave the place of their birth. A different version of the name, _Ilkorindi_ , had once been used for the Teleri and Nandor Elves of Beleriand, coming from _Elcheryn_ , the plural of the more ancient word. _Elcheryn_ was how the Faithful still called themselves in their tongue, which, too, was called _Alchorin_. It was the oldest tongue of Middle-earth, having its roots in the very first tongue of Elves that they had spoken at the Waters of Awakening, ere Arâmê would find them. No-one but the Faithful could still understand it.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt understood that the other Elf had named first his entire race and then perhaps the tribe he belonged to. The names said him nothing, even though 'Kwende' caused a faint echo in the buried memories of his kind that slumbered untouched in each individual. The exact meaning was of little consequence anyway. He already knew what he needed to know: the name of the Elven archer and that he was friendly.

The Drow wanted to learn more about the ominous black river, though, so he pointed at the water and raised both eyebrows in somewhat comical manner to express his curiosity. Alagos nodded his understanding and performed a perfect little pantomime of falling into the water, then yawning and falling asleep. Then he counted on his fingers to three, added another finger for good measure, yawned again and made a show of waking up all drowsy and confused.

Drizzt grinned; the meaning was perfectly clear. The enchanted water apparently caused drowsiness and confusion and put one to sleep for three or four days in a row. Not a terribly dangerous thing in itself, but enough to get killed and eaten by hungry predators – or worse things – in the process.

Which raised the question how the archer intended to cross the river, of course.

As if reading his mind, Alagos kneelt on the brink and peering forward, he began to sing in a low voice that barely carried over the water. A moment or two later, a little black boat came floating against the current. Alagos leaned forward, seized the small vessel and pulled it close to the bank.

The archer then said something that Drizzt did not understand, but the cat made the meaning clear, jumping into the boat. Alagos scolded the beast, though his eyes were laughing when the cat leaped back onto the bank obediently. Understanding what was expected from him, Drizzt stepped into the boat carefully. To his surprise, it did not as much as waver under his weight. Picking up a long pole from the flat bottom of the boat, Alagos jumped in lightly and began to steer the fragile vessel towards the other bank. The cat followed them, springing first onto the ridge posts and reaching the opposite bank with a great leap before them.

Alagos then hid the boat under a thick bush, even tying it lightly with some grey rope, and they continued their journey on the path that ran steadily eastwards. After a while it seemed to Drizzt as if he could hear the far-away blowing of hunting horns in the woods, and the sound of distant baying of dogs. Apparently, a great hunt was going on north of the path, even though he could see no sign of it. He looked at Alagos askance, and the archer grinned.

"Kwendi," he explained, pointing at his own bow, signalling that the hunting party was a friendly one, and that they were near their destination. Drizzt allowed himself a cautious feeling of relief. It seemed that he might have found a place to stay, after all. _Might_ being the key word here. Befriending Alagos still did not mean that the others would accept him, too.

They set forth their journey at a fast pace, now that Drizzt had regained his strength thanks to water and _lembas_. It was a pace that would have exhausted even most Elves, but Alagos seemed tireless and in a great hurry. The path was now going downwards, into a wide valley filled entirely with a mighty grove of oaks, but the forest was lightening up a little here, and so were their steps, and they began to run, crossing the valley with little effort, the great cat running before them and slashing at the cobwebs playfully.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At nightfall they came to a little glade among the trees; the very place where Alagos had intended to spend the night. It was a small _korin_ of ancient oaks, a hundred feet or so north from the path. A modest clan of the Faithful lived here; their _telain_ , scattered throughout the trees, also served as a watchpost for the King's scouts. Mablon, the head of the family, was an old friend of Alagos, a hunter and tracker himself. Ówen, his wife, was one of the healers of the _Elcheryn_ who had seen much in her long life, but neither of them had ever seen a creature like Drizzt Do'Urden.

"He looks like an Elf," stated Alagos, mildly frustrated. "He has the strength and the speed of an Elf. Half-tooth befriended him, and you know the lynx does not make friends easily. And yet he cannot _be_ an Elf. There are no Elves with black skin and lavender eyes."

"Or white hair... with the exception of Galion," added Mablon. "Can he be one of those who have been captured by the Great Enemy to be twisted into Orcs? Mayhap he escaped his torturers early on, when his transformation had only begun, and lived alone, hiding in dark places ever since. That would explain his looks and the lack of any proper language."

Alagos shook his head. "Nay, 'tis not possible. The first step of the transformation has always been to break the connection between _hröa_ and _fëa_ , and then to tear away the victim's beauty and to break their will. This one is sad yet not broken; and he still has his beauty. Nor is he nearly old enough to be one of the Lost Ones; there is no ancient air about him."

"He has no connection to earth, tree or stone here," added Ówen quietly. "He is... he is lost. Not from here."

"You mean not from Mirkwood?" asked the chief tracker.

"Nay," replied Ówen. "Not from here _at all_. He comes from a place very far-away and very different. That much I can clearly sense about him. But what that place might be like, I cannot even guess."

"Mayhap if he learned our tongue he would tell us about it," said Mablon. "You intend to take him to the King's halls, I presume?"

Alagos nodded. "That seems the best to me. With the help of Maelduin the Sage, we might read this riddle ere it is too late."

"You believe he could prove dangerous?" asked Mablon, not dismissing the possibility, just curious.

Alagos shrugged. "We are all dangerous, my friend, one way or another. But my heart tells me that this one may play an important role in the upcoming war yet - if we handle him wisely. It cannot be just a wild chance that he appeared in our midst at the time of our greatest need."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The object of their curiosity was in the meantime watching his surroundings in silent awe. The rope ladders and bridges between the trees reminded him a little of Montolio's home, but these tree-houses were a lot better crafted and better hidden among the branches. The little wooden platforms with the small chambers that had been woven of living twigs and leaves seemed to be one with the trees, instead of simply being put up there, and it required a sharp and well-trained eye to detect them from the ground.

Of course, no Elf was foolish enough to make an open fire in a tree-house. They had their meals on the ground, sitting on sawn rings of fallen trees in a circle around the fire. Small silver lamps were swinging from the overhanging branches of the trees, and there was roast meat and good wine, although both a bit sparsely, and laughing and singing in abundance.

The songs were different from the one Alagos had called the boat over the black river with. These seemed to have no other purpose than to express joy and merriment; for indeed, these woodland Elves seemed a merry lot, despite the darkness of their forest and the spiders and other foul things that populated it.

With a sudden jolt, Drizzt realized that he could not see any cobwebs on these trees, and there were no pale, bulbous eyes staring down at them from the branches above, either. How had this small clan managed to keep the evil beasts away, he wondered. Was it simple bravery, a sharp eye and a steady hand upon the bowstring? Or was there magic involved?

Usually, he could tell when a spell was cast close to him. Drow Elves were familiar with magic and never hesitated to use it to their advantage. But it seemed to him that the magic in this place was vastly different from the one he was used to; and once again, he wondered what this place was and how he had gotten there. And as he listened to the clear voices of these woodland Elves, singing wondrously in a tongue he could not hope to understand, he also wondered whether he would see any familiar place ever again.

The evening meal nearing to its end, the various members of the woodland clan started to clean up the fireplace and put away the wooden seats, giving the glade the same abandoned look it had shown upon Alagos and Drizzt's arrival. One of the younger males, whose name was apparently Nermir, took his bow and a full quiver, wrapped himself into a grey cloak that made him melt with the shadows and climbed the rope ladder to the highest watchpost in one of the tallest trees.

Alagos and Drizzt were given a _talan_ on one of the lower branches. The small chamber on it had two grass-filled mattresses in wooden frames and some wooden pegs on the wall where they could hang their clothes and weapons, naught else. Compared with the dens in which Drizzt had dwelt in the recent years, though, it seemed almost a palace; sleeping in a real bed a luxury he had all but forgotten.

The instincts of the hunter screamed at him to stay awake, to look out for any possible treachery from the side of these surface Elves, more so that the great cat had not followed them to the treetops. But he was weary beyond measure and did not truly care, even if his hosts chose to murder him in his sleep.

All he had to lose was his life, and he had ceased to care about _that_ a long time ago - on the very day when the last of his friends left him, succumbing to old age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Linguistic note:** the information about the early names the Avari gave themselves comes from "HoMe 5 - The Lost Road". _Arâmê_ is the oldest Elvish form (adopted from Valarin) of the name that became _Oromë_ in Quenya and _Araw_ in Sindarin, according to the Ardalambion website. It is Primitive Elvish.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inner structure of Thranduil's caves is based on the drawings in Karen Fonstad's Tolkien atlas. The emblem of the House of Oropher had been constructed by Erunyauve, some 15 years ago, although she used golden trees, not silver ones. Some lines of description are rewritten, following "The Hobbit".  
> The theory that Nandor Elves were ash-blond and blue-eyed was originally conceived by Dwimordene who wanted to explain the appearance of golden hair among the Wood-Elves. My Legolas does actually have the changing auburn hair and green eyes of his Avari mother, but I found the theory too good not to pick up. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 03**

In the next morning, Drizzt was waken by Alagos who explained to him -- with very few words and a great deal of pantomime -- that they would have to set off early and in a great hurry. They washed themselves in a nearby stream, had a frugal breakfast with their hosts and returned to the path in the great cat's company. This time Drizzt, too, was carrying a bundle full of provisions, provided by the matron of the woodland clan, Mistress Ówen.

As they were walking eastward with a fast and steady speed, Drizzt was wondering about the Wood-Elves' customs. The eldest mother seemed to be the head of the family, yet she obviously shared her power and responsibility with the eldest male. Also, these people seemed to form permanent relationships; Drizzt was no mind-reader, but the deep affection between Mablon and Ówen, or young Nermir and his wife, Minuial, was very visible, even for him.

He wondered what it could be like, living out his life with the female of his choice as equals, sharing everything in a bond based on love and trust. Humans he had known often spoke of such things, yet he knew that few of them were very faithful, and their bonds had more to do with riches and alliances than with love. Could it be that here, in this foreign plane, among these strange Elves, things were different?

The path now led through a different part of the forest. Most of the trees here were beeches, tall and slender and pleasing for the eye. There was no undergrowth, and the shadows were not so deep, either. A pale light fell upon their way, illuminating the seemingly endless lines of straight, silver trunks that framed both sides of the path like the pillars of some cavernous, twilit hall. 'Twas easier to breathe here, and Drizzt could even feel the touch of a light breeze on his face. He knew they had to be getting closer to the eastern border of the woods, and it was a true relief. As much as he was used to darkness from his birth on, this place was weighing heavily on his mood.

And thus they came by the next nightfall, after a strenuously fast journey no other race could have endured, to an enormous, rocky hill that was seemingly overgrown with trees and bushes. However, Drizzt's keen eyes could make out the small watchtowers carved into the living rock, and higher up, where only the birds and squirrels could have reached them, were stone balconies. Both towers and balconies were placed at different heights and cleverly hidden, and no living being could be seen around them. Nonetheless, the Drow knew that they had reached a stronghold of the Woodland Elves – and not a minor one at that,

The forest alley led directly to a wide river that ran out of the heights of the forest and flowed on and out into the marches of the high wooded lands, as he would learn later. A stone bridge over the river led straight to huge stone doors and into the hillside. The water under the bridge flowed strong and deep, and it was dark, yet not black like the other, the one with the foul magic had been. The strong doors at the far end of the bridge protected the entrance of an enormous cave that ran into a steep slope covered with trees. There the great beeches came as far down as the river bank, 'til their feet were actually bathing in the stream.

The great cat trotted across the bridge leisurely, in the manner of a house pet that was now returning home, after having made a little trip outside – most likely without the leave of its master. Alagos followed the good beast, and so did Drizzt, albeit not entirely without hesitation. The cavern-mouth woke unpleasant reminiscences of the Underdark, and he feared that once trapped within, he would not be able to get out again. He did not fear death, but rotting in a dungeon for the rest of his life was not a fate he would accept.

Feeling his hesitation, Alagos tuned back, laid a hand upon his forearm and said something he could not understand, but it sounded encouraging. He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, and Alagos, touching the great gates, murmured something. The stone doors swung open noiselessly, and the great cat leapt in at once. Drizzt looked back at the grassy terrace and the stair cutting through the steep bank, then took a deep breath and followed the cat and Alagos into the hill. The gates closed behind them with a clang.

Within, the wide passages were lit by narrow shafts cut high in the stone, and the air was clear. They walked some three hundred feet northwards, ere the passage took a sharp turn to the West for another hundred feet. There they came to a fork. Alagos chose the way that led northwards again, and after some hundred feet, they came to a double-winged door of massive oak, strengthened with iron fittings and adorned with white and green gems and mithril filigree, in the form of a rhombus-shaped green emblem with four silver trees, each pointing to a corner of the square.

A young, ash-blond male Elf, wearing silver and green, greeted them with words that Drizzt, once more, could not understand, and swung the heavy wings of the door open with a light touch of a slender hand. They opened to a great hall hewn out of the living stone and bathed in the reddish sunset light that shone through the cleverly cut overhead shafts. Opposite the door, there was a dais, and upon that dais, on a huge chair of carven wood, sat the most stunningly beautiful Elf Drizzt had ever seen – or would possibly ever see – with a carven staff of oak in his hand and a crown of woodland flowers upon his brow.

In his years of restless wandering, Drizzt had met many people who called themselves kings. Some of them, like his trusted friends, Bruegar the Dwarf and Wulstan the barbarian, had even deserved the title. But never in all that time had he met a single person in whom royal dignity would show near as much as it showed in this Woodland King.

The Elvenking rose to greet them, and Drizzt could see how tall he was, taller than Alagos by almost a head, and compared with a Drow, even Alagos seemed tall. Clad in soft, silvery grey leathers and fine green wool, the King looked like a mighty warrior, even though he wore no weapons. He had a noble and fair face, with high, finely sculpted cheekbones and large, wide grey eyes that mirrored the wisdom of Ages but also had a fey glint that revealed a fearsome temper lurking behind the placid surface. His artfully braided hair was golden like pure honey, the thin braids woven together to an intricate coronet and fell to the middle of his back. Drizzt, had no doubt that this was a strong-minded leader who had his realm well in hand.

There were other, lower chairs on both sides of the throne, and their occupants rose with the King as a sign of respect and welcome towards the guest. The gold-haired, blue-eyed lady on the King's left bore such strong familiarity to him, in a softer, more feminine form, that she could only be his sister. There was another young female, with vaguely similar features, silver-haired and blue-eyed; perhaps a daughter or a niece.

On the King's left, a venerable-looking male Elf stood behind the throne, clad in a long, dark green robe. His hair was black like the raven's wing, and his deep, dark grey eyes mirrored the same ancient wisdom as the King's, yet without the glint of fiery temper. Next to him stood a male warrior in leather armour that was strengthened with steel plates. He had the same rich auburn hair as Alagos and wore a sword on his belt and held a halberd in his hand. Based on their looks, they were probably the King's chief counsellor and the captain of his guard.

Further members of the court, most likely of lower rank, were standing in the background, between the stone pillars. At first sight, Drizzt only noticed one of them; one with thick white hair like his own, bound to a loose knot on the nape of the other Elf's neck. For a fleeting moment, the Drow almost hoped to have found one of his own kind, but then he saw that the doubtlessly ancient Elf's skin was as pale as that of the others, and his sudden joy died as quickly as it was born.

The great cat trotted to the Elvenking and rubbed his head against a caressing hand. The King spoke to him in a low, melodious voice, though the cadence revealed that he was chastising the noble beast. Then he released the cat with a farewell pat on one flank, and looked at Alagos askance.

Alagos bent his knee to show his respect; then he rose again and gestured towards Drizzt, speaking his name. The King asked him something, and Alagos answered in some detail. Finally, the King nodded, laid his staff aside and extended both hands towards the Drow, with his palms turned upward in an unmistakable gesture of welcome. At the same time, Drizzt rather felt than heard a wordless greeting in his mind. Apparently, the Elves of this corner of the world knew mind-speak, at least the nobles of them. Drizzt, practically sagged with relief at the thought that understanding, if limited, at least would be possible from now on.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Thranduil Oropherion liked to praise himself of having seen much and not being easily surprised anymore - and that with right. He had been the King of the Woodland Elves for more than three thousand years by now; ever since his father had been slain, with two thirds of his warriors, in a battle of the Last Alliance. In that long and desperate war, Thranduil had also lost three of his four sons, and led home but the battered remnants of his father's army.

Nonetheless, he had managed to rebuild his realm in the Orc- and spider-infested Mirkwood and kept his borders safe against them, the Wargs and whatever foul beasts his southern neighbour, the Lord of the Nazgûl sent against him from Dol Guldur. Consequently, he was not easily shaken. And yet, seeing this strange creature that Half-tooth and Alagos had found in the wilderness, for the first time in centuries, the King felt uncertain about the way he should handle a situation.

"What say you?" he turned to his chief chancellor, Maelduin the Sage, who also happened to be the spouse of his sister, Nelladel.

Maelduin, a Sindarin aristocrat born in Doriath in the First Age, just like his King, shrugged in honest confusion.

"I know not what to say, my King," he replied. "He has the looks of an Elf yet the colour and the weapons of an Orc," he nodded discretely towards the scimitars on the stranger's belt.

Unexpectedly, the lavender eyes of the stranger flashed in anger, and he snarled something in his own tongue. They could not understand it, of course, but recognized the word _Orc_ that he practically spat, thus the meaning was clear enough: the stranger knew Orcs, despised them and considered it an insult to be mistaken for one.

"If I may, my King," Alagos stepped closer to the enraged Drow, raised both hands to show his peaceful intentions, and said slowly, with an empathic shake of his head. " _Not_ Orc."

The stranger seemed to understand, for he repeated, also shaking his head vehemently. " _Not_ Orc," then he added with emphasis. " _Drow_."

"I have come to understand that is how his kind call themselves," said Alagos. "I must admit, though, that in all my years in Middle-earth, I have never heard of a people called the Drow... until now."

"Maelduin?" the King turned back to his chancellor in askance.

The Sage shook his head. "Neither have I. Perchance Master Galion..."

"Nay," replied the ancient Elf promptly. "Nor have I ever seen a creature like him."

"If not the three of you, who would have?" asked the King a bit rhetorically. "For I very much doubt that he would be a creature of the far West that had found his way back across the Bent Sea."

'Twas a jest, of course, born of sheer frustration. Everyone knew that there was no way back from the Blessed Realm. Once someone set foot on Tol Eressea, they were not allowed to leave. No-one had returned since the coming of the Istari to Middle-earth.

"So we know not where he is from and what kind of creature he is," summarized the Lady Nelladel. "What are we going to do with him?"

"We cannot allow him to run free in the woods," said Alagos grimly. "Not ere we learn more about him."

"Can you tell us more?" asked the King. "You were the one who found him and brought him here."

"In truth, it was Half-tooth," said Alagos with a sudden grin. "Found him, licked him awake and prevented him from turning southwards."

Thranduil's half-smile died at once. "He wanted to go to Dol Guldur?"

"At least he started off the southern path," replied Alagos. "Half-tooth apparently disagreed, for he jumped at Drizzt and threw him onto his back."

"And he followed the lynx after that?" asked the King in surprise.

"Like a lamb," the tracker grinned. "Half-tooth found him in the middle of our path, and they walked together 'til the Enchanted River. There I caught up with him ere he could wade the water."

"I find it most surprising that Half-tooth befriended him," said Galion slowly. "He must have something in him... something unusual. Beyond the obvious, I mean. I believe we must learn everything about him – and quickly."

"I agree," said Maelduin. "And as he seems to have at least _some_ trust in Alagos, perchance..."

But the tracker shook his head. "I cannot. I must go to the southern forest with my people to watch the Enemy's movements. Besides, you are the best person to learn his tongue."

"Yet I am no warrior," reminded him the Sage. "He must be entrusted to someone who could earn his respect quickly, and on terms he can understand without speech."

"And I happen to know just that person," declared Thranduil with a feral grin. "Send for Silinde."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Even without understanding their language, Drizzt could guess that these Woodland Elves had never seen a Drow before; that they, in fact, did not have the faintest idea _what_ a Drow was. Their first guess that he might have something to do with the filthy Orcs had been insulting, but again, he could not know what Orcs were like in this corner of the world. Apparently they used scimitars, while Elves did not.

The obvious fact that Drow Elves were completely unknown in these lands was relief and disappointment at the same time. Relief, as it meant that he would not have to fight prejudices based on the – undoubtedly well-earned – reputation of his people. But also disappointment, since it also meant that he had no hope to find others of his own kind who might share his and Zaknafein's values. Granted, that was a very slim hope, but one he could never completely ban hope from one's heart.

Now it seemed that this was not the place where he could see that hope fulfilled, but for the moment he did not mind it very much. He was tired of his lonely existence, and if these Elves were willing to take him in, he would do his best to earn his keeping. There were Orcs, too, and he was good at killing Orcs. He cold make himself useful.

Someone touched his forearm, and he looked up, straight into the almost frighteningly beautiful face of the woodland King. Those starlit grey eyes captured his, and a wordless message was transferred directly to his mind. He was, indeed, welcome to stay. He would be given a guide for day-to-day business. And the King's chief counsellor would teach him the languages spoken here.

He nodded his understanding and consent. The "guide" was more likely to be a warrior who would watch his very step until they knew him better and decide whether they could trust him or not. That was a wise precaution; one that he did not find insulting. These people had no reason to trust him, after all. Not yet. He would have to earn their trust first. But that was something he could – and wanted – to do.

"Alagos?" he asked hopefully, thinking that the archer would be selected as his watcher and guide. But Alagos shook his head, demonstrating quite clearly that he had to return to the woods. He must have been some sort of scout, then, looking out for Orc activities. It was understandable that he could not stay here to watch a single Drow. Still, Drizzt felt a little disappointed. He had already begun to like the silent Elf and hoped to get to know him better.

Ere he could find a way to ask more, the heavy oak doors swung open again, and in marched a tall female warrior, ash-blonde and blue-eyed, clad in brown leather and green linen, her leather armour strengthened with metal plates like that of the captain of the guard. She had a bow and a quiver strapped to her back and long throwing knives on her belt, like Alagos. Her face, though Elven-fair, was angular and lightly tanned, telling of a life mostly spent outdoors. She wore her pale hair in a single braid, as thick as Drizzt's arm.

She came in, bent her knee before the King and asked something in a surprisingly melodious voice. The King replied her; all Drizzt could understand was his own name and the word Drow, spoken in a somewhat puzzled manner.

The woman warrior turned to him, touched her chest with a closed fist and said slowly and clearly, "Silinde."

Which must have been her name; it had a pleasantly musical sound. Drizzt nodded to show that he had understood.

"Silinde," he repeated; then he copied her gesture, saying, "Drizzt."

He did not add the name of his House, as it was clearly not the custom here. Assumed these Elves had Houses at all to begin with.

The warrior named Silinde nodded and smiled. Then she gestured him to follow her out. After a moment of hesitation, Drizzt bent his knee before the King as he had seen from her and from Alagos. It seemed to be a simple gesture of respect, and if he wanted to live among these people he had better adapt to their customs early on.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Silinde was the captain of the Elvenking's archers, many of whom came from the folk of the Nandor Elves. She had come to the royal court in King Oropher's times, near the end of the Second Age. There she had married the Master Bowman of the King, and after her spouse had fallen in the Battle upon Dagorlad she took over his duties and had been a member of the Royal Council for the last three millennia.

She liked her job, for it meant that she could spend most of her time in the woods and rarely had to return to the underground fortress of her King. She had her own _talan_ near the King's halls, where she lived most of the time, leaving her chambers inside the palace to her only son Rhimlath and his wife. Rhimlath had not followed her on the warrior path, choosing to become one of the King's most trusted servants instead, but that was fine with Silinde. Someone had to do the more peaceful tasks, too, to keep the realm running. And at least this way she knew that her son was safe.

On her way in she had already heard of Alagos' return with the strange creature Half-tooth had found in the woods. Practically the whole forest was buzzing with the unusual news – Wood-Elves were a people who dearly loved to gossip.

What she found in the King's Great Hall was a most intriguing creature indeed: a slender male of dark, exotic beauty who had barely her own height, with exceptionally bright, purple eyes, a thick mane of snow-white hair and jet-black skin that all but glittered in the waning light of sunset. The stranger wore a fur-lined, forest green cloak and black boots, some kind of armour she had never seen before, and a silver chain from which hung a peculiar medal: it was carved of bone and depicted the head of a strange animal that looked like a white horse with a short, straight horn in the middle of its forehead.

She could not recognize the beast, of course. Unicorns were not known in Middle-earth. But she could feel the fellow hunter in the stranger at once, and she admired the King's wisdom in entrusting the newcomer to her. After Alagos, who had to return to his tracking mission, she was definitely the best choice.

She led Drizzt to the upper chambers that served as guest rooms as well as the living quarters of the palace's servants. Galion had assigned chambers to their... _guest_ that were situated on the dead end of one of the upper corridors. One could still escape through the balcony with enough skill and determination, of course, though it would be a foolish and dangerous task. Somehow she did not think that the stranger would be foolish enough to try. But they would see.

She tapped on the door next to the stranger's assigned quarters.

"Silinde," she said; then she made the gesture as if she were rocking a babe in her arms, adding. "Rhimlath."

Next, she turned to the guest room door, tapped on it lightly, and declared. "Drizzt." Seeing understanding in the luminous purple eyes, she smiled and tossed the door open. "Welcome."

And this time Drizzt Do'Urden needed neither language skills nor mind-speak to understand the meaning.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The next couple of weeks flew by for Drizzt like a dream. Despite the evil creatures that infested the forest, life in Mirkwood was good for him. Better, in fact, than any life he ad led since taking his leave from Montolio's Grove. Though he knew he was watched all the time – he could feel it, and besides, that was the sensible thing to do – he enjoyed his time with the Woodland Elves... and was learning a lot.

Every morning, he was called to the King's chief chancellor, whose name was apparently Maelduin. The raven-haired Elf had to be some sort of scholar with a keen affinity for languages, both learning them and teaching them, and thus while Maelduin was learning the Drow tongue, Drizzt learned the Silvan dialect of the Woodland Elves as well as Sindarin, which was only used by the nobles of the court, and the Common Speech they used when conversing with Men, Dwarves and other people.

The news that there were Dwarves delighted the Drow. He had grown fond of the stubborn, sturdy race due to Bruenor's unwavering friendship. But he could also see that his tutor was not very friendly-minded towards Dwarves. He carefully asked for the reason and was treated with the full tale of Doriath and the slaying of King Thingol in his own chambers. When Drizzt asked how long back it had been, and when he learned that not only had it happened almost seven thousand years earlier but Maelduin had already been alive – albeit, admittedly, very young – during those events, the Drow began to understand that he had landed in a world profoundly different from the one he hailed from.

The fact that these Elves apparently did not die, unless killed in battle or in some accident, had shaken him to the bone. The Elves he had known before – including his own people – were long-lived but as mortal as everyone else. Was he still on his own plane of existence or had been transferred to a different one? And if the latter was the fact, how had he gotten here?

On the other hand, the knowledge that this time he would not be the one to see any newly-won friends grow old and die while he was still young himself, was comforting.

He still had not spoken about his past – his language skills were still too poor for that – and he dreaded the day on which his generous hosts, above everyone else the Elvenking, would learn about the Drow and their wicked ways. He reminded himself that once it happened, there was a not-so-slim chance that he would be sent away again. He would not blame the King – Drow Elves truly were an evil lot. But he did hope to prove himself first, so that they might believe that he was not like the majority of his people.

He truly hoped that this time he would be allowed to stay. Living in the Elvenking's underground fortress suited him very well – it was familiar and comforting, without the perils of the Underdark, as the caverns were filled with light and song and laughter, despite the evil that lurked outside. These Woodland Elves clearly knew how to enjoy life. They also seemed to possess an arcane ability to converse not only with the beasts and birds of the forest, but also with earth and stone... and before everything else, with the trees. Never in his entire life had Drizzt seen anyone in such bond with the woods, not even Montolio, and he came to understand that this was not something one could fully learn – these Elves had been born that way, it was their nature. That, and centuries upon centuries to work on their unique bond with the forest patiently.

In the evenings, when twilight began to grow, Silinde came to take him out on patrol, taking advantage of his excellent night vision. Drizzt did not mind. He _wanted_ to be useful, to earn his keeping; and besides, this way he had the chance to learn more about the forest and the Elves that lived in it. The common folk, too, not only the nobles of the court.

He came to realize that they belonged to different tribes. The great majority had the same traits as Alagos. They were moderately tall, slender, auburn-haired and greenish-brown eyed. Maelduin explained that these were the true Wood-Elves, the ones that had lived in the forest for as long as anyone could remember – and being a race that had the tendency _not_ to die from natural causes, that meant a _very_ long time. A not so small minority were the Nandor Elves, as Maelduin called them. They were taller, more powerfully built, ash-blond and blue-eyed, like Silinde and her son. Only the nobles of the court had golden or silver hair – or raven-black like Maelduin himself – and grey eyes. The Sage explained to Drizzt (as well as their limited vocabulary allowed) that they came from a tribe called the Sindar and were the descendants of the Teleri, a very ancient kindred that could no longer be found in Middle-earth, save the Havens. The King's longfathers, he added, had been among the greatest kings of the Teleri, and the family came to Mirkwood after a devastating war two Ages ago, to live with the simple woodland folk. However, the King's mother came from an old Nandor clan, which explained his golden hair.

Drizzt had not met with the Elvenking again since the day of his introduction to the court. He saw him several times, riding out to hunt or to visit various outposts in the forest, but was never called before the throne again.

"He waits for you to learn our language better," explained Silinde. "Then he will call you and ask you to tell your tale."

Which was the very day Drizzt dreaded most. How was he supposed to reveal to these good people what an evil race he came from and expect them to believe that he was different? And that he still had no idea how he had been brought here from his own world and why? Or whether something decidedly more malevolent would follow him one day or not?

He had been here but a short time so far, yet he did not want to leave. This spider-infected wood with these good, valiant Elves who inhabited it was the closest thing to a home he could imagine.

Ah, yes, the spiders. That was another very satisfying aspect of life here. Whenever he had the chance to kill one of these foul creatures, it gave him great satisfaction, as if he had gotten another chance to pay Lloth back for all the chaos and evil the Drow people had to live with by the Spider Queen's orders. Hunting spiders had become an obsession for him. He eagerly learned everything he could about their customs, their different kinds, their origins... even their foul language. He made it his personal quest to free the forest of them. He strongly believed that the world would be a much better place, once these evil beasts were gone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"There has to be a dark and unpleasant tale behind his hatred towards spiders," said Thranduil to his sister, watching from the balcony of the royal chambers the return of the Drow from yet another spider hunt. The Lady Nelladel nodded.

"Wherever he comes from, spiders have _not_ been his friends," she replied. "At least we share that much."

"I feel a long and sinister tale he has yet to tell us one day," agreed Thranduil. "I fear we shall not like it. More so as we still cannot even guess where he comes from and why."

"Can he not be one of the Lost Ones after all?" asked Nelladel.

Thranduil shook his head. "Not according to Alagos, and he ought to know it best of us all. Nay, I believe 'tis deeper and darker than any of us may imagine. And that is why I have asked for help."

"What kind of help?" asked his sister. "Who of us could know more of these things than Alagos? I very much doubt that Elrond or cousin Celeborn would be able to lift the veil from Drizzt Do'Urden's secrets."

"I do not believe it, either," said Thranduil thoughtfully. "Which is why I have sent for Aiwendil. The Istari are privy to more and darker secrets than any Elf, and they have a profound understanding of how magic works. If anyone, Aiwendil might be able to bring some light into this darkness."

"He might," the Lady Nelladel agreed, "but would he be willing to do so? Whatever else they might be, the Istari are a secretive lot."

"They have their reasons, I deem," the King shrugged. "And were we speaking about Mithrandir, I, too, would have my doubts whether he would be willing to tell us aught. Yet Aiwendil had been a friend of this forest – and of our House – for a very long time. He will not refuse to come to our aid."

"I hope you are right," said the lady Nelladel grimly. "For I fear that Drizzt Do'Urden might bring us greater perils than we have ever faced."

"I doubt that he has evil intentions," said Thranduil.

"Mayhap he has not," replied his sister. "Yet his presence in our forest, at this very time, cannot be mere coincidence. There is some dark agenda behind it – I say not that it is his own, but the peril is there nonetheless."

"He is being watched," said the King, "every single moment of each day."

"And he knows it," added Nelladel with a wry smile. "Yet my heart tells me that he could slip his watchers any time he wanted to. Not even the eyes of the Faithful can match his in the darkness of the night."

"And yet he stays," pointed out the King, "and aids us in our struggle against the spiders."

"As long as it serves his purposes," answered Nelladel. "But what will happen when that is no longer the case?"

To that, Thranduil had no answer. He just hoped that Aiwendil will have one, soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written long before PJ's film trilogy came out. My Thranduil (and my Dwarves) are vastly different and I prefer them my way. 'Nuff said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien voices his opinion, while discussing the Istari, that Radagast has abandoned his mission because of falling in love with the birds and the beasts of Middle-earth. Well, I am not sure I agree with the Professor about his own creation in this point, immodest as it might sound. Radagast has practically lived in Mirkwood all the time, and who knows what Mirkwood might have become without his presence there? Unlike Elrond or Galadriel, Thranduil had no magic trinket to help him protect his borders, and yet he managed to do so. Perhaps because he had something even better: a wizard to his aid? Save for the bravery of his archers, of course.
> 
> As for the Istari arriving before around 1000 T.A., I took some poetic licence here. The flashback scenes of Menzoberranzan are based on _Homeland_ by R. A. Salvatore.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 04**

Master Aiwendil – or, as Men called him, Radagast the Brown – was one of the _Heren Istarion_ ; a member of a mysterious order of wizards who had appeared in Middle-earth some two thousand years earlier. At least that had been the time when they began to meddle with the affairs of Elves and Men... and other races, though there was little known about the rest. Even among the mightiest of Elves very few knew that some of the wizards had, in truth, arrived a great deal earlier, and had spent their first millennium with secretly studying the various races of Middle-earth, so that they would be able to aid them well in times of need.

Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Elves in Northern Mirkwood, was one of these few. The brown wizard, who had as much love for the trees, birds and good beasts as the Silvan folk, had become a close friend of the Wood-Elves and their King... closer, in truth, than any of his brethren had become with any Elf or Man (or Dwarf) since their arrival. Thranduil had no true knowledge about the exact quest of the Istari in Middle-earth; he assumed they had been sent to help the free peoples against Sauron, and if that was the fact, Aiwendil had certainly done his share of work, protecting Southern Mirkwood from his home, Rhosgobel, against the evil of Dol Guldur. And yet it seemed that his fellow wizards kept shunning him, as if he had missed his true calling.

The King of Mirkwood held the other wizards in no great esteem, truth be told. He did respect Mithrandir, of course, and was grateful for the Grey Wanderer's aid in the Battle of the Five Armies, but Mithrandir seemed to prefer Elves like Elrond and Galadriel and seldom came to Mirkwood... unless he wanted something from the Wood-Elves. Of Curunír, the King could never expect any help, and if he wanted to be honest, he had to admit that he had never trusted the White Wizard. That left him with Aiwendil, who was a person of his own mind, and reliable like sunrise and sundown.

Mirroring even in his looks his humble nature, Aiwendil lacked the impressive or venerable appearance of his fellow Istari, Curunír and Mithrandir, respectively. While not as tall as the other two, he was still not bent by high age... in fact, if anything, he seemed younger than the others, albeit Thranduil knew that he was not. He wore a heavy robe of rough, homespun brown wool, but neither hat, nor hood. His head was only protected from the weather by his thick hair, scorched by the heat of the sun to a rusty colour, interwoven with silver threads and bound with a piece of leather on the nape of his neck. Similarly silver-streaked were his long beard and his bushy eyebrows, under which deep-set eyes twinkled, dark and wise and surprisingly gentle towards all good creatures.

Entrusting his dappled grey horse to the Elven servants, he gladly accepted a goblet of wine after his long ride. He politely refused the offer of a bath, though - which, in Thranduil's esteem, made it understandable that most Elves still thought the Istari being of the race of Men. No other race enjoyed so much to wallow in dirt, calling it "manliness", no less! In Aiwendil's case, it could possibly be explained by his centuries-long acquaintance with the Beornings, too. People who spent a considerable part of their lives in bear form would hardly mind the stench of unwashed Man-flesh too much.

The King decided to refrain from broaching the topic this time, however. Not that Aiwendil would be insulted by a few friendly jabs, but right now, they had much more pressing business.

They met in Thranduil's library: a vast rock chamber right above the throne room. Usually, it was the workplace of Maelduin, and indeed, the Sage was present, too, as well as Mistress Alfirin, the King's head scribe: a raven-haired Sindarin woman from Doriath. She stood at the old-fashioned writing desk, finishing a scroll right upon the wizard's arrival, looking absolutely lovely in her pale green dress above the silvery grey undergown. The wide sleeves of her dress were pinned up to her shoulders with leaf-shaped silver pins.

"Here is everything we have learned about the stranger so far, my King," she said, handing the scroll to Thranduil. "'Tis not much, I fear; his grasp on our languages is still somewhat... tentative, although he understands a lot more than he could speak. "

"'Tis often the case when one learns a foreign tongue," added Maelduin thoughtfully. "He does make some headway, but not enough for true understanding. The King tried to _bespeak_ him, but with little luck."

"I seem to be able to share feelings with him, rather than thoughts," explained Thranduil. "If he has any gift in this area at all, it works differently than ours. Mayhap you shall achieve better results, Master Wizard."

"We shall see," the wizard grumbled, curiosity shining in his deep-set eyes. "Call him, and we shall see."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt recognized the old man as a wizard at the very moment he entered the library. His first reaction was to recoil, and his hands crept to his scimitars by instinct. He had met his fair share of sorcerers and mages, both among his own people in Menzoberranzan and later among the humans of the surface world, and came to the conclusion that very few of them were truly trustworthy, the human ones even less so than the Drow. At least you always knew what to expect from a Drow wizard: only the worst. But human wizards were unpredictable at best, vile or insane - or both - at worst.

This one, however, even though Drizzt could feel the power emanating from him, was different. He might look like a tired old man, yet the Drow could feel that he was neither. And while there cold be no doubt about his powers, the person he reminded Drizzt most of was Montolio, the blind ranger. He had already been surprised by the deep connection of the Woodland Elves with their forest and the good beasts in it. But this old wizard was different. It was as if he were rooted into deep earth, like the ancient trees. As if the green saps of the forest would run in his very veins. Drizzt could not explain this... strange feeling, not even to himself. He had never felt like this before. Not even the druids of Mielikki had ever shown such a profound connection to their deity, the personification of the forces of nature.

Who was this old man?

Well, whoever he was, he seemed to have a great interest in the Drow. And Drizzt had the uncomfortable feeling that the hour of unveiled truth had now inevitably come; the our in which he would have to reveal the secrets of his origins to these good and brave Elves. The hour in which he might be forced to leave this place he had already grown far too fond of.

It had been a mistake. He should have kept his distance, should never have allowed his hosts to find a way to his lonely heart. Leaving now would be the more painful.

But what was done was done. He could not change past events any more than the fact that he was the errant scion of an evil and chaotic race – an abomination, for both his own kind and the other peoples. All he could do was to tell the truth and face the consequences.

He bent his knee before the King, and then turned to the old man to greet him in the Silvan tongue. He was still far from fluent, but he could put together simple sentences and had been taught the words of formal greeting. Somehow he had the feeling that this seemingly plain old man deserved great respect.

The deep and somewhat tired, ancient eyes turned to him. For a moment, the old man simply watched him. Then, suddenly, he heard a clear voice in his head. It spoke a tongue he had never heard before; a tongue that had the music of ringing swords to it. And yet the meaning of what was said was unmistakable.

 _You do not belong here_ , the old man stated.

 _No_ , Drizzt admitted. _I am from a very different place._

 _How did you get here, then?_ asked the old man. _And why?_

 _I was pulled over from my world_ , answered Drizzt. _I do not know how, by whom or why. But I can still fell the pull. It comes from the South._

 _Then I know the source_ , the old man seemed greatly disturbed by that. _Your world... tell me about it._

 _What do you want to know?_ asked Drizzt, trying to put off the inevitable a little longer. The sharp glance of the old man told him that his efforts had been noticed... and were not appreciated. The old man was clearly no fool.

 _Everything I need to know_ , said the wizard. _Show me the place you have come from._

The pressure of his thoughts was too strong to resist for an extended period of time. Thus Drizzt opted to obey, opening his mind, calling up his oldest memories, and showed the old man what Menzoberranzan had been like.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"'Tis a dark and terrible world," said Aiwendil later, sitting with the King and his counsellors in the library, sipping wine. "One that we would not want to get in touch with. It concerns me greatly that a bridge has already been found between our world and his. I shiver from the thought that more of his kind might find their way here – others that are a lot less bothered with moral and conscience. Which, if I understand correctly, is the natural state of the Drow Elves."

"They are definitely of Elven kind, then?" asked the King. 

The wizard nodded. "As far as I can judge from what he has shown me, most of the races of Middle-earth have their counterparts in his world, though the evil races outnumber the good ones," he said. "Apparently, the Drow lost a war against their surface cousins and were forced to seek refuge in the Underdark – a vast network of interconnected caves and tunnels stretching out beneath their entire world. Some of the good races, like Dwarves, have their evil counterparts in the Underdark; while some evil races, like goblins, have their good counterparts in the same place. 'Tis all a bit confusing for someone not native there, I guess. In any case, with a few exceptions, the inhabitants of the Underdark are malevolent, and hostile towards all surface-dwelling life."

"Including the Drow?" asked Mistress Alfirin.

"According to our guest, the Drow are probably the worse of all," answered the wizard. "After their defeat, they adapted to a life in darkness, built cities all across the Underdark and became one of the most powerful races there – and one of the most evil ones. They delight in chaos and mayhem and use the darkest arts of sorcery to gain more power in their society. For a noble House to completely destroy another one to obtain a higher position is the common thing to do. 'Tis also an accepted – and even expected – method in the never-ending power struggle, and only failure to do so without leaving any noble witnesses is punished. Their deity, the Spider Queen, seems to love and encourage this behaviour."

"Could this Spider Queen be a truly existing entity?" asked Maelduin, his scholarly interest piqued. "A creature like Ungoliant used to be?"

"I cannot tell," replied Aiwendil. "Their whole world is much too strange, too alien for me. I have never thought that so much malevolence and wickedness could exist among mere mortals. I wonder how our guest has managed to escape the evil ways of his people. For I have seen his heart and now I know that he is different. He follows a deity called Mielikki, who has awesome similarities to my Lady Yavanna."

"And you truly believe the _Úlairi_ have summoned him over?" Maelduin shook his sable head doubtfully. "What would they wish from a Drow Elf? And from one that goes against the very nature of his own kind at that?"

"I assume it was an experiment of their lord, the Witch-king," replied Aiwendil hitting very close to the truth without knowing it. "He has always been overly fond of sorcery, and it needs great skill in the dark arts to summon someone over from a different plane of existence. 'Tis likely that he chose our guest randomly, not knowing that Drizzt was an outcast – sorcery is _not_ a safe practice, and one cannot meddle with it for long ere it backfires in a devastating manner. My guess would be that the Witch-king simply summoned the first available Drow."

"That makes sense, but what could be his purpose with it?" asked Thranduil with a frown. There were several possibilities, none of which he truly liked.

"What Drizzt has shown me of Drow society makes me think that nearly all Drow males are trained warriors: skilled and merciless ones who massacre their own kind cheerfully and nurture a bitter hatred towards surface Elves," said the wizard. "I can imagine that the Witch-king would value such traits highly."

"He might think he has found the ultimate force to slay us all and make the North his own dark realm once again, as he did in the days of Angmar," Thranduil agreed. "And if he has succeeded once, he may succeed again. I do not like the thought."

"Neither do I," admitted the wizard, "yet I think not that he will succeed again, at least not right away. This kind of sorcery demands time, practice and a great deal of effort – things the Witch-king does not have at his disposal at the moment. He has to lead Mordor's armies in the South. He will not have the chance to return to his little experiment 'til the war is over... one way or another."

"And if Mordor wins the war, we would best run to the Havens as fast as we can," added Maelduin grimly, "for an army of Drow Elves roaming our woods might be more than we could bear."

"The Faithful would never leave," said Thranduil.

"Then they will be massacred, to the last Elf," prophesized Maelduin darkly, "if what Master Aiwendil has just told us is any indication. There is no way we can fight Drow Elves atop of Orcs, Wargs, Giant Spiders, trolls and Easterlings."

"Alas, we all know how slim our hopes for Mordor's defeat are," said the King, his beautiful face darkening in concern. "It hangs on a silver chain around the neck of a hobbit, sent on an insane quest that my only son felt the need to join."

"Halflings are deceivingly stout-hearted people, as you know fro your own experiences with Bilbo," old Galion smiled. "And the young Prince is no little elfling anymore. He is a seasoned warrior who knows his own strength and is more than capable of facing any danger he might encounter on his way."

" _Any_ danger, Galion?" asked the King quietly. "He is heading to the Black Lands right now. To the very place where I have lost my other sons... and my father, to. Are you telling me that Legolas is stronger than Oropher was – he who was born in the First City of the Quendi and whom you have rescued from the fiery clutches of the _Ngwalarauki_?"

"I say no such things, my King," replied old Galion calmly. "I am just saying that you should trust the strength of your son. You tend to see him as if he were still your babe, your little, late-born leaf. Yet Laegalas has long earned his place among the warriors, and 'tis his right to follow whatever path his heart chooses to send him on."

"Besides, he is not alone," added the wizard. "Mithrandir is with them – and since he returned from the death, Mithrandir is now the White. He is much stronger now than he has ever been."

"Strong enough to face the Dark Lord in his own fortress?" asked the King doubtfully. The wizard shook his shaggy head in regret.

"I fear not. Had Curunír not turned against us, together the two of them might represent a considerable force. After all, he had once been almost – _almost_ \- Sauron's equal. But he has succumbed to the hunger for power, like Sauron once had... Lord Aulë must be most grieved by the fall of his two best pupils. So nay, we cannot hope for help from Curunír in our struggle. And we have but our own counsel about how to deal with Drizzt Do'Urden. Or how we can possibly thwart the Witch-king's plans."

"Two very good questions," said Thranduil. "Do you offer any answers, Master Wizard?"

"To the second question I have no answer – not yet," replied the wizard. "As for the first one, though... Well, you are going to war, soon. Or, to be more accurate, war shall come to you, banging on your very doors. You will need every single warrior in your realm, and Drizzt Do'Urden is a formidable warrior; the best the Drow Elves could offer. _And_ he is an honourable Elf, fighting the forces of evil on principle. Use him to defend your realm. He will not refuse to serve you."

"Yea, but can I trust him?" asked Thranduil worriedly. "His intentions may be honourable, but he was called over by the Witch-king's summons, you say. What if he falls completely under the Nazgûl's spell? What if he already is under that spell? He has admitted that he still feels the pull of Dol Guldur."

"But he has resisted that pull and followed Half-tooth here," pointed out the wizard. "What is more, he needs to face the Nazgûl if he ever wants to be free of that spell, and he knows it. He wants to be free again."

"I doubt not that he wants it," said Thranduil. "But will he truly be able to free himself?"

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He came to the magically wrought fence that connected the keep of his ancient home within he wall of he vast underground city of Menzoberranzan, the dwelling place of twenty thousand Drow Elves, with the two small stalagmite towers that flanked the courtyard to the compound of House Do'Urden. The fence was made of _adamantite_ , the hardest metal in the known world, and hundreds of spider-carvings adorned it. Every one of those carved spiders was wielding a different weapon in each of its eight legs; and every single one of them was covered with deadly glyphs and wards, showing that more than just weapons were guarding this House; that the clerics were well-versed in the dark arts.

This massive gate was one of the two prides of House Do'Urden, the other one being the _mithril_ -and- _adamantite_ balcony, running along the second level of their abode, broken only by an arched doorway reserved for the nobility of the family – a rare minority, as of the twenty thousand inhabitants of Menzoberranzan only a thousand or less were nobles. Most of those the children of the sixty-seven recognized Houses of the city. The rest were common soldiers... or slaves.

One of those soldiers was now rushing to open the gate for the returning secondboy of the House. He walked past the soldiers with his usual cold detachment and moved across the courtyard, uncomfortably aware of the three hundred or more eyes following his every movement. Something was decidedly off. The household should have been a lot warier about him. It was as if they had known something he did not know himself – at least not yet.

There was no stairway leading to the silvery balcony on the second level. This was a precautionary measure, providing the leaders of the House with another barrier of defence, even against their own soldiers and slaves, as only the nobles possessed the innate magical ability of levitation. He rose from the cavern floor with barely any effort, drifted easily through the air, along the artfully carved balustrades, and dropped onto the balcony with practiced ease.

Passing the archway, he walked down the main corridor of the House that did not stand free, of course, but was basically a huge cave, turned into a work of art by skilled Drow hands. That made the defending of the House easier – but it made escaping the abode all the harder.

He almost stopped for a moment, wondering why he would ever consider escaping from his own home – the only place with some semblance of safety for him in the entire city. But he forced himself to keep walking calmly. Everything else would be a weakness, and showing weakness – any weakness – was a deadly mistake in Drow society. So he kept walking, 'til he reached the ornate brass door at the end of the corridor. He allowed his eyes to switch to darkvision, adjusting to the even deeper darkness that waited for him behind that door. Unlike the corridor, the audience hall of the high priestesses – which also served as the anteroom to the grand chapel of House Do'Urden – had no light source of all. It was a place dedicated to the dark rites of the Spider Queen, and light was not tolerated here.

Matron Malice was sitting on the raised dais at the back of her audience chamber, her face glowing with anger. Flanking her in their own places of honour were her three daughters, all three high priestesses of Lloth, all three in various states of the same outrage. There were female guards at the door – exceptionally large ones.

"Seize him!" screamed Mother Malice, releasing a freezing spell at the same time, and the dreaded snake-headed whips on the three sisters' belts were writhing in excitement, feeling that they would be used, soon. He felt his limbs turn to ice, and darkness descended upon him.

He came to his senses somewhat later, strapped to the altar of Lloth – a huge gemstone carved to the shape of a Drow-faced spider. His eldest sister, Briza, was holding the ceremonial dagger above his sweat-bathed chest. 'Twas a cruel instrument, its hilt formed like a spider's body, sporting eight legs, barbed so as to appear furred, but angled down to serve as blades - blades that would tear his still-beating heart from his living body.

The braziers in the great chapel roared to life, making the carvings step forth from the deep shadows, malevolently, threateningly. The clerics of House Do'Urden began to chant one of the countless unholy prayers to the Spider Queen. The room heated up, as contact to the dark plane had been established.

Drizzt Do'Urden had come to full cycle. The fate that he had avoided twice already - once right after his birth and once when his House had fallen into Lloth's disfavour because of his heresy – had finally caught up with him. After a century or more, he _would_ be sacrificed to the Spider Queen, after all.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The inhuman screams woke Silinde from her restful but ever-alert sleep. She never slept deeply when within the caves; and anyway, those terrified cries would have woken a stone troll. After a moment of disorientation, she realized that they came from Drizzt's chambers.

Accustomed to deal with unexpected and perilous situations, she tried the door first, but it was bolted from the inside. Which meant that her charge was not being attacked by someone, slim as the chance for _that_ would be anyway. Only a Giant Spider could have entered Drizzt's room through the balcony, and the Elven magic protecting the King's fortress kept those beasts safely away.

The only other beings capable of such feat were Elves, which Silinde was just about to demonstrate. Jumping or climbing from one balcony onto another had been a favourite test of courage among elflings ever since the King's halls had been built, and though Silinde had not grown up here, she could do the same without breaking out in sweat.

The terrible screams had alarmed servants and guards alike, and they were now puzzling before the closed door, trying to figure out what might be happening with the stranger and what they were supposed to do now.

"Wait for me," ordered Silinde. "I shall enter his chambers through the balcony. We can always break the door later, should I fail in my approach."

The captain of the guard agreed, and Silinde climbed onto the railing of her balcony. Like most Elves, she was ambidextrous, but preferred her right hand when shooting or writing, thus she found it a bit inconvenient that she had to rely on her left when performing the jump onto Drizzt's balcony. She felt more secure with her stronger arm supporting her weight in a poorly balanced position.

Needless to say that she landed safely, even so, and she pulled the curtain aside to gain a glimpse into the room behind it. 'Twas very dark in the stone chamber, but her night eyes adjusted to the moonlight now falling in from outside, and she could make out a sweat-soaked Drizzt, trashing upon his bed, caught in the clutches of a violent nightmare. His normally so stoic and calm face was twisted into a mask of terror, and he was screaming words that Silinde could not understand but that were clearly desperate pleas for help – or for mercy.

She was uncertain what she should do. Trying to shake the Drow awake could kick the hunter's instincts into action; Drizzt could kill her in self-defence, without meaning to do so. She had already seen what her charge was capable of, and she knew that against a Drizzt acting on pure instinct she would not stand a chance.

Looking around for something she could use, she spotted a jug of water on the washstand – and broke into a wide grin. Carefully staying out of Drizzt's immediate reach, she aimed with leisure and doused the thrashing Drow thoroughly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The shock of cold water over his heated skin woke Drizzt from the nightmare that had once been his daily life. Dripping wet, he jolted upright on his thoroughly soaked bed and glared around wildly, trying to discern between dream and reality.

He spotted the tall, slender shape of a surface Elf in the darkness, recognizing the long, pale hair and the powerful shoulders of an archer.

"K-Kellindil?" he asked uncertainly. He had thought the Elven archer was dead, had been killed by the human bounty hunter looking for _him_. How could Kellindil be here?

But the other Elf shook her head in regret.

"Nay," she said, her voice low and melodious. "Silinde. I am Silinde, remember?"

Her voice helped Drizzt to become fully aware of her surroundings again. No, he was not back in Faerûn, and Kellindil, the first and only surface Elf ever truly friendly towards him was dead, killed because of him. He was in this foreign place where he had been pulled by some dark force, and the tall, pale-haired Elf was Silinde, his neighbour and guardian, the captain of the Elvenking's archers.

"Silinde," he repeated in a voice that sounded lifeless, even in his own ears. "I remember - yes."

"May I come closer?" she asked, and Drizzt nodded. He knew he probably looked like a wet dog in his soaked bed, but he did not care about dignity at the moment. Anything was better than being alone at the moment.

Silinde took a clean blanket from the chest in the corner, wrapped it around the shivering Drow tightly and sat down on the stone floor with him, holding him in her arms as she would hold a frightened child.

"Bad dream?" she asked, keeping her voice low and calm. The white head resting on her shoulder nodded.

"Home," murmured the Drow; it sounded as if he would say _hell_.

"Care to speak about it?" continued Silinde carefully.

"Later," replied Drizzt, still shivering, though whether from the cold or from the aftershocks of his nightmare, it was hard to tell. " _Much_ later."

"Fine," Silinde agreed. "We shall talk later." She waited a while, rubbing the Drow's back to warm him up, then she asked. "Who is Kellindil?"

Drizzt closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the Elven archer's fair face and easy laugh, but he could not. The years spent alone with the hunter in the wilderness had eroded many of the more pleasant memories.

"He was... a friend," he answered quietly. "Dead now. My... my fault." 'Twas hard to admit. Yet it was the truth.

Silinde reacted differently than expected, though.

"We all have our regrets," she said simply. "Mayhap one day you can speak about your friend, too."

"Mayhap," he allowed, secretly doubting that he would see that day come, ever. Silinde patted his back encouragingly.

"Come with me," she said. You cannot sleep in this dripping bed. We shall find you another room."

"No room," he mumbled, dreading to spend the rest of the disturbed night somewhere deeper in the caves. " _Talan_."

"The night is cold on the _talan_ in this season," warned Silinde. She already knew that he hated low temperatures, even more so after his years spent in Icewind Dale.

"Air," he tried to explain, struggling with the lack of proper words. "Wind. Easy breathing."

"Very well," said Silinde, understanding what he meant. "We shall go to my _talan_ , then. Let us take some blankets with us."

He heard her leave his room and send the guards and the servants back to their beds. Then she came back, with a couple of neatly folded blankets on her arm.

"Come now,' she said with a gentle smile. "I shall take you to a place where you can breathe easily."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They spent the rest of the night on Silinde's _talan_ , sharing a wineskin of mead, wrapped in the warm, surprisingly light blankets. They did not talk, just sat there in companionable silence for quite some time. After a while, though, Silinde began to sing, in the dialect of the Nandor tribe. Drizzt could not understand the words, but the melodies were slow and thoughtful, and he found them utterly soothing.

Some time later, small, screened lamps were lit on the _telain_ scattered all in the other trees, and other Elven voices joined hers, low and sweet. The singing swelled in richness and intensity rather than volume 'til the entire hillside was vibrating with the sound.

"I have not heard Mother sing like that for a very long time," said Silinde's son, Rhimlath, standing on the balcony of his bedchamber, listening in awe. "Not since word came from Dagorlad that my father had been slain in the Last Battle. Mayhap she has found her heart again?"

But his young wife, Mírenin, shook her head thoughtfully, so that her heavy sheaf of reddish-gold hair slid from her shoulder.

"Nay," she said, "'tis a song of healing, not one of love. She would not let herself be distracted by the matters of the heart. Not now, when we are about to face the hardest battle of this Age.

"She is no healer," said Rhimlath.

"True," Mírenin agreed. "She is a warrior. So is Drizzt Do'Urden. She is trying to help him as one warrior would help another.

"And what is your judgement as a healer?" asked Rhimlath. "Will she be able to help him?"

Mírenin gave the problem some thought.

"She might calm him down for the time being," she finally said, "and mayhap later, given enough time, she will be able to help him... even heal him. I cannot tell. It depends on them both; and he is a deeply wounded soul."

"So is Mother, despite the strong front she shows all the time," replied Rhimlath. "Mayhap they will be good for each other."

"Mayhap," allowed Mírenin, a bit doubtfully. "Assuming that any of us survive the upcoming war."

"You are in a dark mood today," said Rhimlath, with mild reproval in his gentle voice that sounded much like his mother's.

"I am _afraid_ ," Mírenin admitted. "For the first time since the King moved the realm here from the old tree city in Emyn Duir, I am truly afraid."

"I cannot blame you," Rhimlath sighed. "We can still go to the Grey Havens if you want, though. Or to Edhellond in the South. We can board a ship just in time, ere the war breaks out in earnest."

"Nay," replied Mírenin with determination. "This is my home. I shall _not_ leave it, no matter what."

"Then we shall stay," said Rhimlath simply, "and hope against all hope that the Shadow will perish in the end."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The team of Nandor Elves are recurring OCs who first appeared in "The Trials of a Woodland King".  
> The flashback scenes of Menzoberranzan are based on "Homeland" by R. A. Salvatore.  
> The description of the IronFist Dwarves having coppery hair and almond eyes comes from my good friend Gecco, together with the idea that they were fond of tattoos and piercings. I adopted it from her wonderful Gimli-centered story “Of Fire and Stars”.  
> I know that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills are canonically considered to be LongBeards, as Dáin Ironfoot was actually a descendant of Durin the Deathless. However, I go with Gecco’s version here, with a matriarchal Dwarven society, and simply decided that Dáin’s mother would have been from the IronFists. Also, I always found it a little unlikely that every Dwarf appearing in LOTR would be a LongBeard, so I divided Thorin’s company a little from the beginning.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**PART 05**

In the following days the signs that the Wood-Elves were now preparing for the war in earnest began to multiply. Patrols along the Elf-path – the same one Drizzt had followed to get to the King's Halls – had become more frequent. Intricate traps were built near each large household in the forest. Small families sought refuge in the fortress, bringing all their belongings with them. Friendly birds and beasts were gathering to carry important messages. The bow-makers, fletchers and weaponsmiths could barely catch up with the work. The wood-carvers and leatherers were doing necessary repairs to armour, light, hand-held shields and other weapons. Food resources were placed in strategically important hideouts for the fighting troops, just in case.

All this was done in a calm but highly efficient manner, the various craftsmen working together with a practice that went back half an Age. Everyone knew his or her task well and needed neither orders nor instructions. They had done the same before many times. Too many times.

Drizzt spent those days on Silinde's _talan_. The nights were icy cold on the treetop, but at least he could feel the wind upon his face, and for the time being no other nightmares bothered him. The Wood-Elves never left him alone, of course - and not only for his own safety in a dangerous forest still largely unknown to him; 'twas also their duty to keep an eye on him. He understood the reason. Now, since he had talked to the wizard, these Elves had realized how potentially dangerous a Drow could be; and they had also learned about the mysterious pull from the South. They were protecting him as much as they were watching him.

As a result, he began to build a tentative friendship with a close-knit team of Nandor Elves – the most experienced archers under Silinde's command. The four males were brothers, all of them sons of the King's bow-maker; what is more, two of them, Brandor and Brathadir, were twins. All four were tall, ash-blond and broadly built (for an Elf anyway), with the typical, heavy-set shoulders of bowmen. The fifth member of the team was Brandor's life-mate, a slim, quiet Silvan woman by the name of Nimphal.

With Silinde's blessing they took Drizzt with them when patrolling. They showed him the hidden paths among the thick growth, and taught him how to move in the treetops without making a noise that would reveal them to the enemy or rouse the spiders. They showed him the few mushrooms and berries that were edible in Mirkwood and taught him the ways of the beasts that lived in the forest.

He had just begun to feel better when the nightmare hit again. They had been out spider-hunting all day and reached the King's Halls well after nightfall. Silinde wanted to report in to the King before returning to her _talan_ , and Drizzt fell asleep while waiting for her.

The nightmare took him back to a half-forgotten episode of his youth; to a time right before he had left Melee-Magthere. After rejecting the advances of a high priestess, he was rescued (or so he naively thought) from the chapel by his sister Vierna. As had happened then, they were hurrying towards the eastern end of the great cavern that housed Menzoberranzan, the City of the Spider Queen, the city of his birth. Across from the wall that held the abode of House Do'Urden, they came to the entrances of three small tunnels, each guarded by glowing statues of giant scorpions. The stone monsters seemed so _alive_ in their own sublime glow that even in his sleep, Drizzt felt a cold shiver along his spine.

Vierna led him down the smallest of the tunnels. It widened gradually, and after a while it led them into a complex knot of twisting and criss-crossing corridors. They passed through a low archway, beyond which the floor suddenly dropped away, leaving them to stand on the narrow edge above a wide chasm, which was shrouded in the thin mist from some nearby tar pit, emitting a heavy, biting scent. Only a few large boulders rose here and there from the mist. A tangible wickedness seemed to be laying heavily upon the chasm, and Drizzt recognized the place: it was one of the wild areas outside the city, the lair of the _driders_ \- the very same place Vierna had brought him to be killed in his youth.

A dry, scattering noise from somewhere beyond the mist roused him from his memories. It came from somewhere beyond the mist. In the next moment, a wretched creature appeared upon a distant boulder, searching for the intruders with glowing, blood-red eyes. From the waist up, it was a Drow-Elf, although terribly bloated and its skin a sickly ash-grey rather than black. Its lower body, however, resembled that of a giant spider, with eight furry legs to support its frame. 'Twas impossible to tell whether it was male or female, because of the bloating – not that it mattered. The creature was something made by foul, black sorcery, and would leave no descendant behind whatever its gender might be. 'Twas a twisted and maimed body, naught else, hating the entire world around it – and, perchance, itself more than everything else.

It was a _drider_ indeed, an abomination created by a high priestess in a low and torturous process. And Vierna was a high priestess, capable of wielding such foul magic. In fact, she _had_ done this unspeakable cruelty to their brother Dinin – but as Drizzt stared into the twisted face of the miserable creature, the familiar features were not Dinin's... they were his own.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
This time, his own screams shocked him awake. He sat on his bed, hugging himself for comfort, shaking with past horrors relived, 'til Silinde came in, alerted by the frightened servants.

"I... must get out of here," he mumbled. Silinde nodded.

"We shall go back to my _talan_ ," she said. "And then, my friend, we need to talk."

And talk they did, for the rest of the night. 'Twas not easy, for Drizzt still lacked many of the necessary words, and besides, he never liked to talk about himself. But Silinde insisted, and with much effort and a great deal of creativity, they managed to reach an understanding. Silinde listened intently to Drizzt's descriptions of the life in a Drow city, the bizarre creatures that populated the Underdark... and above all else, of his family. Needless to say that it was not a pleasant tale to hear.

"Your own mother wanted to murder you, right after your birth?" Silinde, a loving and devoted mother, could barely trust her ears. Drizzt shrugged.

"Noble families have no use for thirdboys," he replied matter-of-factly. "Lloth favours sacrifices like that; they may earn her favour for the family. She is chaos incarnate, and the Drow serve chaos. Noble Houses struggle for more power all the time. To achieve higher rank, a House has to wipe out any one above it. Only Houses in Lloth's favour can do that."

"Was your House one of the ruling ones?" asked Silinde.

"Before I was born, we were Tenth House of Menzoberranzan," explained Drizzt. "On the very night of my birth, our House wiped out House De'Vir, and my brother Dinin killed our eldest, Nalfein, to become elderboy of House Do'Urden."

"And so you survived," said Silinde. Drizzt nodded.

"I was no longer thirdboy. I was allowed to live, as Lloth had accepted Nalfein's death instead of mine. Later, when I was already in exile, our House wiped out House Hu'nett and became Eight House. That was fast, even for Drow."

"You were exiled?" asked Silinde. "Why?"

"For rebelling against Lloth," replied Drizzt. "My family lost the Spider Queen's favour, because of my... my _treason_ , as they saw it. They tried to hunt me down and sacrifice me, to regain Lloth's favour... and failed. When others learned about that, House Baenre, the First House, wiped out ours."

"I am sorry," said Silinde, after a long silence.

"I am not," replied Drizzt, his eyes hard. "They were evil, all of them. Even my father, who taught me different values, could not break out of this circle. As much as he hated it, he served the purposes of Matron Malice 'til the day of his dead."

"And yet he gave up his life for you, did he not?" asked Silinde.

"Twice," answered Drizzt with a heavy sigh. "That made me understand that I had no place in the Underdark any longer - that I had to go to the surface."

"I see," for a while, Silinde remained silent. Then she asked. "Was it a hard thing to do?"

"Yes and no," said Drizzt thoughtfully. "The sun tortured my eyes, and my armour, my _piwawfi_ , my clothes... they disintegrated in the sunlight. Also, Drow magic slowly trickles away from one outside the Underdark. I could no longer levitate, or wrap myself into darkness... or any of the things I used to do before. But seeing the stars made up for all the losses."

"What is a _piwawfi_?" asked Silinde.

"A... a mantle," Drizzt was seeking the right word. "A... cloak. Makes you invisible in the Underdark."

"Sounds like one of those grey cloaks of Lórien that make one meld with the shadows," murmured Silinde. "You are used to wearing armour, then?" she asked. "It does not slow you down?"

Drizzt shook his head. "We have always trained in full armour," he said. "I am just as fast with armour as without. I no longer have any, though."

"We might be able to get you proper armour from the Dwarves," said Silinde. "They make those worn by the Men of Esgaroth and Dale. And I think having someone in full armour would be very useful when we finally make our move against Dol Guldur. Our leather armour is little protection against Orc weapons, but we are not accostumed to wearing anything heavier."

"I thought you were not friends with Dwarfs," said Drizzt in surprise. "Master Maelduin..."

"...lives in the past and is still mourning the death of Elu Thingol," Silinde finished the sentence for him. "However, the fact is that we have good enough ties to the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. With the King's leave, I shall take you to Erebor and see whether we can get you a decent set of armour ere we have to go to war.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After hearing Silinde out, the King gave his leave, instructing her to keep her eyes open on their way for the spies of the Enemy. It was known that the Nazgûl had sought out Dáin Ironfoot, the King under the Mountain, trying to win him for Sauron's case, and that they had promised to return for his answer, soon. Thus Silinde and her trusted team of Nandor Elves, including Nimphal, set off to escort Drizzt to the Dwarven city under the Lonely Mountain.

What for mere mortals would have been an arduous journey along the Forest River (or, indeed, upon its very back), and then northwards along the shore of the Long Lake and then against the stream of the River Running, the light-footed Elves had managed in little more than a full day. Nor had they followed any of the rivers, but took a shortcut to the Mountain; one known only to the experienced trackers of Mirkwood. They went in almost complete silence, using every bit of cover they could find along their way, and just before nightfall, they reached the outskirts of the Mountain.

Having lived in Icewind Dale for many years, Drizzt was accustomed to seeing mountains – but this one was different. About three and a half thousand feet above them it towered, grim and dark. It was roughly star-shaped, its peak capped with snow, and six mighty ridges radiated from it. Within the two southern spurs lay a broad, south-facing valley, where the thriving town Dale had been built by Men upon the western bank of the River Running. The river itself – called Celduin by the Elves – originated from a spring within the Mountain, descended over two falls, then swirled around the town in a wide loop that passed first near the eastern spur, then west beyond the Ravenhill, a watchpost upon the very end of the southwestern spur, before turning east and south to the Long Lake.

But it was the Mountain itself that filled Drizzt's heart with awe, not the river or the valley below, lovely tough it looked with the terraced fields and gardens above, on the hillside. Those areas ended above the Mountain's knee, and beyond them, the rocky surface was bleak and shone almost blue in the fading light, its head wrapped in a torn cloud. Wisps of white mist swirled in the deep valleys between the spurs like some living thing – something powerful and threatening and yet awe-inspiring. Drizzt had never seen a mountain before that would seem so... so _alive_ , like a grim and forbidding guardian that refused to give away any secrets.

Avoiding the merry town that lay before them, the Elves aimed straight for the watchtower upon Ravenhill, for that was the Dwarves' place to look out for strangers, visitors and intruders alike. Drizzt could feel watchful eyes upon himself, but no-one appeared in plain sight, and the short, stocky stone tower seemed abandoned, 'til Brathadir knocked on the heavy door. It swung open noiselessly, and out stepped one of its guardians, the sight of whom made Drizzt's mouth literally hang agape.

There was no doubt that he could only be a Dwarf: both his size and his beard were clear signs of which race he belonged to. And yet he could not be more different from the Drow’s friend of old, the true-hearted yet somewhat rough-hewn Bruenor of Clan Battlehammer. Even though Bruenor had been the King of his people, he would seem some barbarian compared with this Dwarven warrior who was now staring at them calmly, demanding to be told the reason of their presence.

The guardian was young for a Dwarf in Drizzt’s estimate, and fairly large as Dwarves go; he reached to Drizzt’s shoulder with the top of his head. He wore elaborate armour of thick leather and some kind of iron mesh for which, as Drizzt would learn later, the IronFist Dwarves were famous, but no helm. His thick, coppery hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and left unbraided, and he wore golden rings in his ears. His short but powerful body was well-shaped and well-toned, and he literally radiated strength. His almond-shaped, hazel eyes watched the newcomers with interest.

“Dear me,” he said in a deep, amused voice. “The spider-hunters of Mirkwood, before our very doors. If that is not surprising and miraculous!”

Then, bowing deeply and with flourish, he added, “Bledri son of Buri, at your service.”

“Brathadir son of Denweg, at yours,” replied the archer, returning his bow. “These are my brothers; and our captain, Silinde.”

“The Ladyhawk?” in the almond eyes of the Dwarf now showed something akin respect. “I have heard of you, Silinde of Mirkwood. Your name is a honoured one among Durin’s folk. How can I be of service?”

“We have come to speak to a weaponsmith,” answered Silinde. “To see if he might have armour fit for our friend here.”

Young Bledri gave the quiet, hooded Drow a curious glance but asked nothing more. Apparently, the Dwarves in this corner of the world considered good manners an important thing – unlike their cousins in Faerûn.

“Well, ” said the young Dwarf, “you should go on without delay if you want to catch anyone still awake. I shall bring you to the Front Gate.”

“And leave your watchpost unguarded?” asked Brathadir with a smile. The Dwarf squinted up into the face of the tall, blond archer.

“You think us such fools that we would have but _one_ guard on Ravenhill?” he responded.

They both laughed, and the Dwarf hurried to show them the shortest way to the gates of their underground city.

They crossed the stone bridge and came to the terraced entrance of the city right above the place where the river broke through the Mountain. The Dwarven warriors guarding the Front Gate were even larger than young Bledri; barely a head shorter than Drizzt himself. Their ink-black, almost blue-shimmering hair was forced into a tight braid, which was doubled over to fit under their elaborate helmets. They wore short mail shirts and polished vambraces, and not only were their halberds as big as themselves, they also had battle axes strapped to their broad backs.

One of them, whose name was apparently Dólgthrashir (or something like that) clearly recognized Brandor, Brathadir’s twin, and dismissing young Bledri, he led the Elves personally down a wide corridor to a large square from which other, smaller corridors and numerous stairways led to different levels and directions.

“Most of the smiths are already at their rests,” he explained apologetically, “but Master Glóin often stays up late in the night in these days. He might also welcome any tidings you might have. He has been… strange, ever since he returned from Rivendell last winter.”

There was an audible tingle of curiosity in his deep voice, but Silinde – the only one privy to the events that had led to Glóin’s firstborn going on an insane quest with Elves, Men and halflings – pretended that she had not heard it.

The doorward graciously accepted the wordless rebuke – again, something no Dwarf of Faerûn would have done – and whistled a young, beardless lad forth.

“Be a good lad, Núr, and take these Elves to Master Glóin’s quarters,” he said. “I must return to the Gate, or I would go with them myself.”

The lad named Núr gave the visitors a wary look, but obeyed without arguing. He led them along wide corridors and up broad stairways, several levels higher than the Front Gate.

Drizzt watched his surroundings with great interest. The walls and the paved floors were wondrously smooth, the ceilings arched and masterfully carved, the patterns of the paving pleased the eye with vivid colours. The runes depicted there told the Drow nothing, but it was obvious that the Dwarves in this world were every bit as skilled as their kindred in Faerûn.

They were shown into a large, spacious stone chamber, which served both as a foyer and as the workshop of a skilled artisan. A small hearth stood in a corner, next to a large stone anvil. There was a long, low stone table under the lighting shafts cut into the ceiling. Various pieces of armour and many kinds of weapons lay nicely ordered on the table or hung on the wall.

A venerable-looking old Dwarf stood behind the long table, clad in drab working clothes, a leather apron bound about him. He was of middle height (for a Dwarf) and powerfully built, his thick hair, tightly braided away from his broad face, white like snow. His long, white, forked beard was stuffed into his belt under the apron. His deep-set eyes were round and black like buttons.

He glanced up from his work – he was whetting a long knife – and a surprised frown appeared on his face.

“Oh,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice. “Silinde Ladyhawk, if I am not mistaken. I am so honoured. What can I do for you, my good tree-huggers?”

Drizzt was a bit taken aback by the old Dwarf’s tone (a _lot_ less friendly than that of the others), but Silinde just grinned broadly, like someone who was used to be treated that way and did not mind it a bit.

“We need some armour for our friend here,” he said, nodding in Drizzt’s reaction. “Some _good_ armour.”

“Finally found someone who can hop around in proper armour, have you?” asked the old Dwarf good-naturedly. “This the black Elf you have picked up in the woods, eh?”

“News travel fast, I see,” commented Silinde.

The Dwarf shrugged his heavy shoulders.

“You are not the only ones with bird friends,” he said. “The ravens and thrushes have their eyes everywhere. So aye, we do know about your Dark Elf with the strange name.”

He set the knife to the side and came closer, scrutinizing the Drow with narrowed eyes.

“He looks not so different,” he judged, “but for the blackness of his skin. A bit short for an Elf, though.”

“His kind lives under the earth,” pointed out Silinde.

“Do they now?” said Glóin in pleasant surprise. “Now this is an Elf after my taste.”

“Trust me,” replied Drizzt dryly, “you would _not_ like my people… _or_ the Underdark where they dwell. ‘Tis a place full of wickedness and foul magic.”

“I must suppose I shall have to take your word for that,” said the old Dwarf placidly. “You need some armour, then, do you?”

“Indeed I do,” answered Drizzt. “Can you provide it?”

“I might,” said Glóin. “But the question is: can you pay the price?”

“Depends on what you demand,” shrugged the Drow. “I have no coin – not the kind that is used here.”

The old Dwarf waved dismissively with a heavy hand.

“I do not desire riches,” he said. “What I need, I have, and so does my family. But I am eager to hear tales from the places I have not been to – and would most likely never go. For I am old and feel no desire to make long journeys anymore. So, tell me about the Dwarves of your world, and I will consider the price properly paid.”

“That I can do,” said Drizzt, “for I used to have a dear friend among them: Bruenor Battlehammer, the chieftain of Clan Battlehammer and rightful king of Mithril Hall. Never have I known a truer friend and greater hero than him who slew a dragon to regain the realm of his forefathers.”

“Hmmm,” said Glóin, clearly pleased. “I see that you are the teller of wondrous tales; tales of friendship and bravery that are sorely needed in these dark times. Very well then; let me find a proper hauberk for you, and afterwards you can sit with us in the Great Hall and tell us about your valiant friend.”

Drizzt readily agreed, and the old Dwarf took his sweet time to find him a sturdy mail shirt, made of thrice-forged steel rings as well as light vambraces. The hauberk was coloured dark grey, almost black, so that its wearer could meld with the shadows, and fit Drizzt surprisingly well.

“Not bad,” judged Glóin, adjusting the leather fittings here and there. “A good thing that you are so scrawny for an Elf.”

“Where I come from, all Elves are so small,” replied Drizzt with a shrug,

“You are not exactly _small_ ,” corrected Glóin, squinting up at him from the side, “just a little scrawny. All right; we are done here. Let us move to the Great Hall, have a good meal and some good ale and hear your tales.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

The Great Hall of Erebor – built countless centuries earlier for feasting or for more serious gatherings – was a cavernous room, covered with the most amazing artwork Drizzt had ever seen in his life… and he _had_ seen his fair share. Huge statues of long gone Dwarven kings, heroes and great artisans lined the walls, only half freed from the living stone of which they had been carved, inlaid with precious metal and gemstones to emphasize their rich attire. The expanse of the walls in between was covered with murals that depicted ancient Dwarven legends in expressive colours. Above them, the walls grew into great height, touching each other in wide arches so high above that even the darkvision of a Drow could not make out the details easily. 

Dáin Ironfoot, the King under the Mountain, was also the chieftain of the IronFist Dwarves – and it showed. He, too, was remarkably large for a Dwarf, as tall as five foot, with a powerful build and thick, corded muscles that revealed him to be a warrior born. His once coppery hair and beard were now iron grey, both intricately woven with _mithril_ beads. He was clad according to his high rank, in deep burgundy red and gold, yet by no means overdoing appearances. His sleeveless tunic left free his mighty arms that were adorned with intricate tattoos: red runes and figures, outlined with black. 

He greeted the Elven guests with a courtesy and flourish that, again, surprised Drizzt, coming from a Dwarf – and a warrior, at that – and offered them places at his table. ‘Twas very obvious that his main interest was aimed at Drizzt, thus the Drow found himself seated high up, on a place of honour, near to the King’s own seat. Silinde, who seemed greatly respected among the Dwarves, was offered a seat next to him, while the other Elves got placed much further down, among the lower-ranking members of the court. 

At first the people around the long table were chatting about the daily events, as storytelling among Dwarves was something to be done after the meal, when the good ale was brought forth and one could pay the storytellers proper attention. Thus Drizzt had plenty of opportunity to watch the Dwarves that filled the Great Hall. He saw that they were generally large and more noble-looking than their kindred in Faerûn. After a while, he began to notice the small differences between the different clans. 

Some of them were of average height (for a Dwarf) and had forked beards and dark, button-like eyes, like Master Glóin, though their hair and beards were not white but ink-black. These LongBeards were, as a rule, richly clad and apparently greatly respected, as they had been the leading clan from the beginning of their race. Also, they were the ones who had initiated the re-claiming of the Lonely Mountain from the Dragon, some decades earlier; without that reckless adventure, the others would not have been there now. 

However, the most numerous group seemed to be the large, copper-haired IronFists, whose amber eyes were almond-shaped like those of cats: the King’s own people. There were almost the same number of BlackLocks: large, indigo-eyed warriors or scholars mostly, with hair so jet-black that it shimmered in a deep blue in the light of the wondrous crystal lamps. 

There was a smaller number of StoneFoots, easily recognizable by their golden hair and blue eyes, the most handsome Dwarves one could imagine, and FireBeards, who made the name of their clan sufficient honour. They, too, had cat-like eyes, bright brown or green. The BroadBeams and StiffBeards had the smallest numbers; they also were the smallest in stature, although the former tended to go fat with advanced age. 

All this was explained to Drizzt by Silinde, in a voice too low for anyone but Elves to hear. She also told him that it was not usual for all seven clans to live in the same place. Usually, the members of two or three clans shared a dwelling; those who got along with each other best. But the re-taking of Erebor from the dragon Smaug had been a heroic effort shared by all Dwarven, and thus all had the right to repopulate it. 

Soon enough, the excellent evening meal, which consisted of roast mutton, mushrooms, berries, spicy sauces and three different sorts of delicious honey cake, came to its inevitable end, as no-one was able to ate any more. The table was cleaned and the good ale brought in, served in large, beautifully crafted silver jugs and handed around to fill the equally beautiful silver tankards. It was a dark, deceivingly sweet beverage, which, as Silinde warned Drizzt, would knock the hardiest Elf over in no time, so the Drow held back a little, even though he found the ale excellent and would have liked to have more of it. 

After the first round, the storytellers were called in to entertain the guests. Some of them were wandering bards (the Dwarven equivalent of minstrels) who all but lived on the road, travelling from settlement to settlement and retelling beloved, time-honoured ballads and epic poems, as well as creating new ones as soon as any event of importance happened to Durin’s Folk. Others were time-proved warriors who wanted to recall the glory of their days of old, something that always kindled the fire in Dwarven hearts. 

And thus Drizzt was treated to glorious tales about every great battle the Dwarves had ever fought in the three Ages of Middle-earth: from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, where Azaghâl, King of the BroadBeam Dwarves in Galbigathol(1) under Mount Domed, was slain by the dragon Glaurung, through the Last Alliance and the Battle of Azanulbizar, the climatic battle of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, to the most recent one, the Battle of the Five Armies, in which Erebor had finally been re-claimed. 

The songs and tales encompassed at least six thousand years of Dwarven history, and listed names of honourable warriors from King Azaghâl to Thorin Oakenshield and King Dáin Ironfoot himself, as well as those of great artisans, from Narvi to Telchar, the swordsmith. Drizzt listened in rapture, for even though he knew Dwarves well enough, due to his long friendship with Bruenor, a whole new world opened up before him here, among these proud, noble and fierce Dwarves, and he felt honoured to sit among them and to listen to their amazing tales. Somehow he had the feeling that this was not a common occasion for Elves. 

He told them so. The Dwarves seemed pleased by it, and they demanded that he should tell about the Dwarves of his world, as promised to Master Glóin. 

And so Drizzt told them about Clan Battlehammer and about _Mithril Hall_ , their home of old, from which they were driven by the _Druegar_ , the wicked grey Dwarves of the Underdark, with the help of Shimmergloom, the shadow dragon. He told them about his dear friend, Bruenor, who had been but a beardless lad when driven out, and who never ceased to hope to return there one day. 

He told them the tale of his arrival in Icewind Dale and how Bruenor had befriended him, in spite of the well-earned evil reputation of the Drow Elves. He spoke of Wulfgar and Catti-brie, both of the race of Men, whom Bruenor had raised as his own children. He described the creation of Aegis-fang, Wulfgar’s wondrous weapon of _mithril_ , diamonds and _adamantite_ , the masterpiece of a Dwarf who had been as good a craftsman as a warrior. This, naturally, raised many questions from the weaponsmiths present, and Drizzt, answered their questions as well as he could – which, of course, was not even close to satisfying for the Dwarven artisans, but that could not be helped. 

He explained with tolerant amusement how Bruenor had tricked him into helping in the search for _Mithril Hall_. He spoke about their long search, and the Dwarves listened in awe when he told them about the adventures and perils of said search. When he described the old Dwarven city where the tunnels were lined with natural veins of _mithril_ as thick as a man’s arm, there were sighs of deep longing and murmured _Ah!_ s and _Oh!_ s among the listening Dwarves. Not even Khazad-dûm in its heyday could boast of having such riches in its deep tunnels, and while they ere glad to have at least Erebor back, the grief over the loss of Khazad-dûm still burned in their hearts with a low, never-perishing flame. And they remembered Old Balin and the others who had gone to re-claim the Dwarrowdelf and never returned, and whose fate was still unknown to them. 

They all shuddered with remembered terror when Drizzt recalled the moment in which he had seen Bruenor ride the shadow dragon into a deep gorge, both covered in flaming oil, and Bruenor hatcheting wildly into the dragon’s spine. Dragonfire was something many of them had experienced first-hand, and it was an experience no-one wanted to repeat. Ever. They listened with bated breath to the tale of Bruenor’s lonely fight, which had continued for weeks, in which the old warrior had worked his way up from the lowest point of _Mithril Hall_ , covering his flaming red hair and beard to disguise himself as one of the _druegar_ , and killing any grey Dwarf he caught alone in the tunnels and chambers of the Hall. How he had finally escaped his pursuers by climbing up a chimney shaft – only to be attacked by a giant spider. How he had managed to kill the spider, despite being bitten, and found his way up a vent to the outside. 

This particular detail made the Dwarves of Erebor shudder again, as many of them had had the bad fortune to meet the spiders of Mirkwood personally, and their admiration for their distant (and now, sadly, dead) cousin went up another notch. 

“This Bruenor would have made his name greatly honoured, even among the great warriors of the Elder Days,” declared Dáin Ironfoot, and the other warrior Dwarves nodded in agreement. “I would have been honoured to welcome him to my halls, for he would be a worthy companion.” 

“I, too, wish that he could be with us,” said Drizzt in sorrow. “But Dwarves, long-living though they might be, live not half as long as Drow Elves.” 

“Does this mean that your kind will not live to the end of Arda as other Elves do?” asked the Dwarf King in surprise. Drizzt shook his head. 

“Drow are as mortal as everyone else in Faerûn,” he replied. “The oldest Drow I have ever heard of was less than six hundred years old.” 

“And just how old would _you_ be?” asked Master Glóin. 

“A little over one hundred,” answered Drizzt with a shrug. “I am not entirely sure how long I have lived alone in the wilderness. I am still young as Drow Elves go.” 

“That is a good thing, I would say,” declared the Dwarf King. “For sooner or later, we will have war before our very doors, and the Woodland Elves will have to defend their forest as well. What are your plans for the upcoming war, Dark Elf?” 

“’Tis an easy decision to make,” said Drizzt. “The Wood-Elves took me in, gave me a home, offered me their hospitality, their friendship. Their fight is my fight now. I shall go to war with them, and I shall fight alongside them to the best of my abilities.” 

“We shall fight side by side, then,” said Dáin Ironfoot grimly. “And even if we fall, we will fall after a good fight, honouring the names of our longfathers, and they will welcome us in the Halls of Waiting with pride and joy. Hereby I name you a Dwarf-friend, as no Elf has been named since the days of Narvi and Khelebrimbur(2), for never has been a friendship between Dwarf and Elf like theirs ever since. Yet your friendship with Bruenor Battlehammer honours both our races and gives me hope for the future – and for that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” 

With that, the long evening of feasting and storytelling came to an end. The Elves were given guest chambers on the upper levels, with balconies, so that they would not feel uncomfortable under all that rock and stone, and Drizzt, although used to subterranean dwellings, was relieved to be able to see the stars. He decided to spend the night on the balcony in the hope that the nightmares would not bother him there. 

The night was icy cold so near to the Mountain’s snowy cap, but he took the blankets from the bed, wrapped them tightly around himself, and used a pillow to have something warm to sit upon. From this position, his keen night eyes could make out the Front Gate, deep down where the River broke through the rock, and he could see almost as far as Dale. 

The merry town of Men was quiet now, its terraced gardens and the houses built into the very hillside dark. But Drizzt knew that it was full of life nonetheless - life that would awake in the next morn with renewed vigour. 

It was a heart-warming thought for the lonely Drow on his dark balcony. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Belegost, one of the main Dwarf cities in Beleriand.  
> (2) Celebrimbor… with Dwarven pronunciation. *g*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember Glóin’s remark on Elrond’s Council that the Nazgûl promised to return for Darin’s answer to Saran’s offer, soon. Tolkien never told us which Nazgûl it was (albeit Khamúl as the lieutenant of Dol Guldur would be the most likely choice) or whether he really did return or not. So, I took a little poetic licence here.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 06**

Drizzt stayed awake all night. Partly out of fear from the nightmares, partly to reflect on what he had just learned from – and about – these Dwarves here. There was a lot to think about, many facts to put into context, and despite all that he had learned in Montolio’s house, Drizzt was no scholar.

It had been his experience, though, that if he allowed newly learned facts to ghost around in his mind, sooner or later, they would find their proper place on their own. Thus he kept sitting on the balcony, wrapped in the warm cocoon of blankets, and listened to the subdued noises of the night.

Dawn was still at least two hours to come when the feeling of dread began to tug on his consciousness. The feeling was not new – ‘twas similar to the one he had felt shortly before being pulled into Middle-earth, although not entirely the same. And it grew steadily, as if its source would be nearing the Mountain at high speed.

Driven by inner unrest, he left his chambers to find the way back to the Front Gate, Fortunately, having been born and raised in a great underground city had taught him to remember all paths and tunnels under the earth that he had trod before, so the task was fairly easy for him.

The guards at the Gate glared at him in suspicion.

“What are you doing here, Dark Elf?” one of them, a big BlackLock by the name of Orin, asked.

“I am not certain,” admitted Drizzt, “but I can feel that something is coming. Something evil.”

The guards exchanged knowing looks.

“Well, it was to be expected,” said another one, an amber-eyed IronFist whom the others called Snorri. “The messenger _has_ promised to return… in truth, he promised it before the end of the previous year, so he is, in fact, late. We better wake the King now, so that he can be prepared. Go to him, Hjorr, but be discreet about it. There is no need to make the whole city worry.”

Hjorr, a young Dwarf with the customary forked beard of the LongBeards (although his was not long enough to be tucked into his belt yet), marched off in a hurry. Drizzt gave the guards a worried look.

“Who is this messenger you have been expecting?” he asked.

“One we would prefer never to see again,” replied Orin grimly. “One from the South – from Dol Guldur.”

“The Necromancer’s Tower?” asked Drizzt, for he had learned much about the dark powers that haunted Middle-earth from his mind-sharing with the wizard Aiwendil. Orin nodded.

“The Dark Lord himself has abandoned this stronghold more than seventy years ago,” he explained, “but his servants still dwell there, poisoning the South of the forest, filling it with Orcs and other foul beasts.”

“What kind of servants are those who can bend Orc to their will?” wondered Drizzt. He had known Orcs to obey only their own kings and chieftains, and no other living thing. He said so.

“Those are no living things,” replied Orin, and he shook himself like a big, shaggy dog, as if trying to shake off some unpleasant thing. “You’re welcome to wait with us and see for yourself. I fear, though, that you will not like what you shall see.”

But curiosity killed the cat, as Men liked to say, and Drizzt was now too curious to let this chance pass. More so as he hoped to understand how and why he had been brought to Middle-earth when he learned more about the power that housed in the dark fortress of the South.

Heavy Dwarven footsteps alerted him to the arrival of King Dáin Ironfoot, flanked by his two chief councillors, the blue-haired, scholarly Dwalin and a large, elaborately tattooed BlackLock by the name of Dori. They gave the Drow identical frowns, and the King looked at the guards in askance. Orin shrugged.

“He could feel the approach of the messenger,” he said. “So I thought he could just as well stay and see the foul thing. He needs to know what he might be facing one day.”

Dwalin turned worried indigo eyes to the Drow.

“You can _feel_ the Nazgûl?” he asked incredulously.

“I know not what a Nazgûl is and what it feels like,” replied Drizzt, “but I do feel a strange pull from the South, all the time. Master Radagast believes ‘tis the same force that has pulled me over here from my own world.”

“Why would the Enemy do such thing?” wondered Dwalin, his frown deepening.

“Most of my kind are evil,” answered Drizzt with a laconic shrug. “Perhaps he thought I was like the rest of us. Perhaps he wanted to use me against the Wood-Elves… or against your folk. He could not know that I was a renegade; those are extremely rare among Drow Elves, not to mention short-lived. The Matrons do not tolerate insolence.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a long, lonely horn-call. It came from the watchpost upon Ravenhill and announced the arrival of a messenger. Shortly thereafter, a huge black steed burst out of the darkness to the Front Gate, like some sort of dark thunderstorm, growing to monstrous dimensions in the torchlight. Its heavy hooves thundered on the road like great war-drums.

Upon the stead, like a shadow upon shadow, like darkness made flesh, a Man-shaped creature sat… just larger than the tallest Man Drizzt had ever seen, by at least a head. It wore a great black cloak with the wide hood pulled deeply into its face, and heavy black boots, with cruel spikes of steel upon the toe. It stopped its speed barely two feet from the waiting Dwarves with iron-studded black gloves upon black reins and tossed back its hood.

Drizzt froze. The black cloak opened from the gesture, and he could see a hauberk of mail and a silver helm. Yet beneath was the grey robe of the dead, and the body within – if, indeed, there was a body at all – was invisible. The Drow looked up into the messenger’s face… and involuntarily stepped back in horror, for nothing seemed to bear up helm and hood. All he could see where a face should have been were two reddish-glowing eyes.

“Dwarf-king,” the creature said, its voice barely more than a low hiss, cold and cruel. “I have come for your answer as promised. This is your last chance.”

“You have come too late, Wright,” answered Dáin Ironfoot with a calmness that filled Drizzt’s heart with awe. “I have made up my mind already – and I do not intend to serve your Dark Lord. Not now, nor in any time in the future.”

The glowing eyes flashed in a red and hellish flame.

“Then die and perish, you old fool, together with your entire greedy, dirt-digging race!” it snarled, and it seemed as if the very air would have frozen to tiny icicles from the coldness of its wrath. Then it whirled around to Drizzt, and its foul, icy breath hit the Drow like a freezing wind… like thin daggers of ice rammed into his chest. “But _this_ one is mine. He has been summoned for me.”

“I think not that he would be willingly go with you,” said the Dwarf-King with the same unshakable calmness. “He has made his alliances already; I doubt that he would change his heart and follow you to the tower of foul sorcery in the South.”

“We shall see,” taunted the Nazgûl, focusing its full attention on the Drow. “Come now, Dark Elf! ‘Tis your destiny. Obey and follow!”

Drizzt could feel the beckoning spell grow to almost touchable strength and had no doubt that it would ensnare most free peoples of Middle-earth… although the Dwarves showed surprising resistance against it. He, however, was a Drow, used to and well-versed in the use of such foul magic, and thus he could resist better. His experiences with the _illithid_ , the evil mind-flyers of the Underdark, had greatly strengthened him against ensnaring spells.

“You are wasting your time, Wraith,” he said with some effort, addressing the evil creature in the same manner the Dwarf-King had done before, though not with half the ease. You have no power over me; and there is naught you could offer me.”

“Is there not?” echoed the Nazgûl mockingly. "I think there is. Everyone has a hidden desire… a secret question… regrets they would prefer to forget. You cannot fathom what we are offering, Dark Elf – but you shall find out one day. I only fear you will not enjoy that knowledge much. You could become a trusted servant, wielding powers way beyond your narrow horizon. Refuse us, and all you can become is a rotting body in our dungeon, waiting for death have mercy with you… which could be a _very_ long time.”

“That is enough,” interrupted Dáin Ironfoot sharply. “I will not have my guests being threatened before my very door. You have said what you came to say, bloodhound of Sauron; and you have heard my answer. Now begone! Go back to your tower of foul sorcery and weave your web of darkness while you can. Soon enough, sharp and gleaming weapons will make short work with your cobwebs.”

At that, the Nazgûl laughed, and its laughter, cold and cruel, pierced Drizzt’s heart and mind like a thin poisoned dagger.

“Stunted old fool,” it said mockingly. “Should we ever meet face to face again, that will be the day of your slow and painful death.”

With that, it turned about its huge black steed and rode away into the impenetrable darkness, sending a long-drawn parting cry down the wind. It rose and fell like the shriek of some giant, malevolent bird, and ended on a high, piercing note that chilled the blood in Drizzt’s veins.

For a moment, even the Dwarves were frozen with terror. Then they shrugged it off with almost identical shrugs of their heavy shoulders.

“Do not listen to the Nazgûl’s cry,” Dori, the King’s chancellor, warned the Drow. “While they are deadly when wielding a sword or a mace, their strongest weapon is the terror they plant into the hearts of all living creatures.”

“Who… _what_ are they?” asked Drizzt.

“Once, long ago, they were Men,” replied Dwalin the scholar, fingering the plaits of his blue-black beard thoughtfully. “Mighty Kings or chieftains… or, the worst of them, sorcerers. They accepted Rings of Power from the Dark Lord, the Enemy we are all fighting, to escape death and to gain even more power. Only that they have not; not truly. The Rings trapped them, enslaved them to the will of the Enemy, and they have become something neither dead, nor alive. ‘Tis a sorry existence they have led for thousands of years; and there will be no escape for them, unless the Enemy’s power is broken for good.”

“He tried the same thing with us, you know,” King Dáin added, shooting Drizzt a darkly amused glance from under thick eyebrows. “He gave Rings to our seven Kings, at about the same time. But Dwarves cannot be enslaved by the will of others; that is how Mahal made us.”

“Is Mahal your god?” asked Drizzt, still not very well-versed in the beliefs of Middle-earth. The King shook his massive head.

“Mahal is the Maker,” he replied simply. “He has made us for endurance, and endure we do, beyond the measure of all good people of Arda. And even though he had done so without leave, the One accepted us as a part of Arda and let us be. This is why we differ from all other good peoples of Middle-earth; for our origins are different. Is it not so for the Dwarves of your world?”

“They consider themselves the creation of the god Moradin, who fashioned them into a likeness of himself, using gems and metal, and then breathed life into them,” replied Drizzt. “But they know many other gods of importance: Abbathor, the god of greed, for example, or Berronar Truesilver, the god of safety, truth, home and healing; or Clangeddin Silverbeard, the god of battle, Dugmain Brightmantle, the god of scholarship, discovery and intervention; or Dumathion, the god of mining, Muamman Duathol, the patron of wanderers and expatriates; or Vergadin, the god of wealth and luck, to name just a few. There are many others, I am told, but I do not know their names.”

“Is it general custom in your world to worship such a confusing number of gods?” inquired Dwalin while they were slowly walking back to the inner halls. Drizzt nodded.

“Each race has its own deities. Some are good and some are evil, but they all have their priests, rituals and followers.” He gave the Dwarven scholar a curious glance. “Why are you surprised? Are your Valar not the same?”

The blue-bearded Dwarf shook his head.

“The Valar are not gods,” he said. “Not even Mahal, the Maker. They are all the creation of the One: Ilúvatar, the All-father… although calling him _father_ , or indeed _he_ is a simplification. In any case, the Valar, too, are Ilúvatar’s children, born from the very thoughts of the One; they just have a higher rank and much greater powers than mortal beings – or even Elves – can ever hope to gain.”

“But what _are_ they then?” asked Drizzt in mild confusion.

“They are the Guardians of Arda,” replied Dwalin, “who tend to the work of Ilúvatar yet hardly ever interfere, for the flesh of this world is not strong enough to bear their presence… unless they take on a mortal form that restricts their powers greatly. Yet even so, the last time they decided to interfere, half Middle-earth crumbled into the Sea as a result of the strain. Since then, they have left it to us to deal with the evil of this world.”

“They have abandoned you?” asked Drizzt in shock. Dwalin shook his head again.

“Nay,” he said. “They consider us grown-up children who do not need the doting hand of their parents any longer.”

“Sounds lonely to me,” commented Drizzt.

“It is not,” replied the Dwarf with a shrug. “We can fend for ourselves well enough.”

Drizzt suppressed a smile. Irrepressible self-confidence seemed to be a universal trait of Dwarves, no matter of which bred. For some reason, he felt more at home among them than even among the woodland Elves. More refined or not, they all reminded him of Bruenor.

He wished them a good night and returned to his chambers, only to find Silinde waiting for him.

“What has just happened?” she asked. “I woke up feeling something evil close by. Have you seen it?”

Drizzt nodded. “It was a Nazgûl, or so the Dwarves say – I have never seen one before.”

“And I would be grateful if I never saw one again for the rest of my life,” declared Silinde grimly. “Our King has been told that they had sought out both the Dwarves and the Men of Dale in the recent years, but we thought they would have given up by now.”

“I believe they have, at last, or so it seems,” replied Drizzt, telling her the gist of that which had happened between the Wraith, the Dwarves and himself. Silinde grew even more grim as he was listening to him.

“’Tis dire news,” she finally said. “The attack upon us might be closer than we have feared. I shall send messenger birds to the King, first thing in the morn, and we will set out for home at the earliest possible time. We will be sorely needed to protect the forest, sooner than we might imagine.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When they reached the Elvenking’s Halls again, they found the entire place in great excitement. Alagos had come back just the night before, and his news were both worrisome and a relief.

“A great army of Orcs and Wargs has been sent out to the South from Dol Guldur,” he explained, “straight to Lothlórien’s northern border. I fear Haldir and his archers will have a hard time to protect the Golden Wood.”

“The Galadhrim can take care of themselves,” waved Silinde dismissively, “and there is also the Lady’s magic to protect their enchanted forest. I am more concerned about the King’s kinfolk in Dor-Lelmin. They live in a place that has little natural defences. Valiant as they might be, they are in dire peril”

“They will be here in two days' time,” replied Alagos. “They are on their way already. And my people have retreated to the fortified watchposts as well. Our net is spread over the entire forest. We are ready.”

“As ready as we ever will be,” Silinde sighed. “This is not some minor skirmish with the usual rabble of Orcs, my friend. This time the Enemy is truly determined to wipe us out.”

“He has tried before… and failed,” said Alagos with a shrug. “He will fail again.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” replied Silinde glumly.

Alagos shrugged again. “The trees will protect us, as always.”

“If there would still _be_ trees,” said Silinde. “Remember the time when the Enemy last made war upon us in earnest? Remember the great woods of Eriador that were burned to the ground? The North never truly recovered from it; woods like those will never grow again.”

“Life is change,” said Alagos. “Much that was once great and beautiful is now lost, ‘tis true; yet we are still here and adapt, grow with the changes. We shall overcome this, too, as we have overcome previous hindrances.”

“If you say so,” said Silinde, still full of doubt.

“I say so,” answered the ancient Elf, “for it is so. Now, let us go to the King and discuss with him defence strategies.”

And off they went, with Orendil, the Captain of the Guard, leaving Drizzt in the capable hands of Silivren, the silver-haired Princess of Mirkwood. This was the first time that Drizzt got the chance to actually _speak_ to the Princess, who was a scholarly person, like her father, Maelduin, but had the sunny nature of her mother, the Lady Nelladel.

Drizzt was surprised to learn that the Princess no longer lived in her father’s halls, having been married to Egilstadir, the heir of Dor-Lelmin, since the very year when the Dwarves had re-taken Erebor from the Dragon. She had been visiting her parents for a while and got trapped here when the road had become too dangerous for her to return.

“’Tis a strange thing to be at home for a longer time again,” she admitted. “The kinfolk of my husband is very different from our own. They are good people, but a little too grave sometimes… and they never eat meat. I have missed my uncle’s roast venison leg in the last sixty years or so.”

“The King cooks himself?” asked Drizzt in surprise. The Princess laughed.

“Only on special occasions,” she explained. “Most male Elves are good cooks, but Uncle Thranduil has a special talent. He says, cooking calms him down. I rather think though, that it reminds him of happier times; of times when Aunt Lálisin was still with us.”

“What happened to the Queen?” This was a question Drizzt had been wondering about but never quite dared to ask. Unlike the young princes who had fallen in battle almost an Age earlier, the Queen was practically never mentioned at court. “Has she sailed to the Blessed Realm?”

“Nay,” replied Silivren grimly. “She has been captured by the Enemy’s servants, less than two hundred years ago. Our scouts, led by Legolas himself, followed her trail as far as Dol Guldur… but we do not have the power to enter that fortress of foul sorcery. Aunt Lálisin gave up her life willingly, rather than reveal to the enemy her secrets,” she glanced at Drizzt’s intently observant face. “We _can_ give up our lives at will, you know. Flee our bodies, if there is no other way out.”

“But what sort of secrets were those that she would be willing to die for them?” asked Drizzt. “Powerful spells of protection?”

“Nothing so fancy,” answered the Princess with a sad little smile. “Just the same power that lives in the trees, in the water, in the earth under our very feet. Aunt Lálisin was a Wise Woman of the Faithful; perchance the last true one of them. They were _one_ with the forest in a way no-one else could hope to become. Not even other Elves.”

“And the Enemy wanted the key to that power,” murmured Drizzt, finally understanding, “so that he could make the very earth his tool and his servant.”

Silivren nodded. “Aunt Lálisin could not allow that – thus she fled her body. She could not have resisted the folter of the Enemy; no-one could. She chose not to suffer unnecessarily, and yet keep her secrets safe. ‘Twas a wise decision.”

“But how would you know what happened to her?” asked Drizzt.

“She appeared to Legolas under the Great Ash,” replied the Princess simply. “If it was true sight or must a waking dream, no-one could tell. The dead send us messages both ways sometimes.”

“Legolas… he is the King’s son, is he not?” asked Drizzt. Silivren nodded again.

“The only one he still has,” she said. “Uncle loves him very much, for he has much of his mother in him, unlike his sister.”

“His sister?” that surprised Drizzt. “The King has daughters, too?”

“He used to,” said the Princess. “But Celebwen has long succumbed to the Sea-longing and lives in the Havens now. Sweet little Aiwë… she was barely ten when killed by a poisonous spider-bite. ‘Twas terrible; the poor thing has suffered so much, and not even Master Aiwendil could help her.”

“How awful!” Drizzt could imagine what the loss of such a young child – and a girl-child at that! – must have meant to the King. He had learned by now how much the Wood-Elves loved their children, and besides, elflings were not _meant_ to die. Less so due to some malevolent, eight-legged monster.

“I feel that I might have to go hunt some spiders again,” he mused darkly. “I have not slain any of them for days – I do not want them to feel neglected.”

“They surely deserve naught else,” said the Princess in agreement. “I think, though, that you should not leave right now. The council has been summoned to discuss possible strategies in the upcoming battle – ‘tis possible that you will be needed before long.”

“What would they need me for?” wondered Drizzt. “I might be a seasoned warrior, but I am just one Drow.”

“And yet you might make a great difference,” replied Silivren. “No-one is expendable in these days, and many of us believe that you have been sent to us for a reason.”

“I have been summoned by the Nazgûl Lord to be used _against_ your people, Princess,” Drizzt reminded her.

“That may be so,” allowed Silivren, “and yet here you are, _with_ us, preparing to fight the Nazgûl, because Ilúvatar chose a mere hunting cat to dwarf the plans of the evil forces. If you do not mind my asking: how came that you have followed Half-tooth rather than the summons of the Nazgûl?”

“I… I guess I have a soft spot for big cats,” replied Drizzt with a helpless shrug.

“Is there a reason for that?” asked the Princess. Drizzt nodded.

“It is called Guenwhyvar,” he answered softly.

That answer led to even more questions, of course, and ere he realized, he was telling the Princess all that he could about his magical friend, the panther from the Astral Plane… and why Guenwhyvar was lost for him, forever. Silivren listened to him with great interest, only asking a few questions here and there, to nudge the tale forward.

“If I understand you correctly, your cat friend is alive and well on his own plane of existence,” she finally said. “You are just unable to summon her anymore.”

Drizzt nodded. “That is true. I am glad she is safe, but I miss her.”

“Do you still have the figurine?” asked the Princess. “We are not very good at handling magical trinkets, but the Dwarves might be able to put it together again. Some of them have still not entirely forgotten how to unite skills and magic.”

“Sadly, I have never quite managed to find all the shards,” answered Drizzt. “I fear that a reconstruction of the figurine is no longer possible.”

“A shame,” she said. “Though it is not certain that you could summon her to Middle-earth, even if your magic item were available. ‘Tis said that magic works differently on each plane of existence, and mayhap a channel to the plane of your cat could not be opened from here at all.”

“But magic _does_ exist in Middle-earth, too, does it not?” asked Drizzt. “The gates of the King _are_ magical… and there are other such things, I am told.”

“Very little of it, and possibly of a different kind than you are used to it,” replied Silivren. “Elven magic is naught but better, deeper understanding of the powers of earth, water and other natural forces, and using them to our advantage. Dwarven magic, if I understand rightly, is the same, just with metal and stone and fire. Neither of us is trying to force anything around us to do something they were not supposed to do.”

“What about the Enchanted River?” asked Drizzt. Silivren laughed.

“They say that was a spell that backfired,” she said. “My grandsire, King Oropher, had learned a lot in Doriath about how to use rivers as natural defences. I am not certain, though, that _this_ was the effect he had desired. He was great warrior and a wise ruler, but spells were _not_ his forte.”

They laughed in quiet understanding. Ere they could have continued their conversation, though, one of the House Guards approached them, bowing politely.

“Forgive me, Princess Silivren, but the King asks Drizzt Do’Urden to join the Council.”

“Me?” asked Drizzt in surprise. “Of what possible use could I be there?”

“I was not told the reason,” answered the guard, “just that your insight would be needed.”

“Go,” said Silivren. “It seems that the overall plans have been made, and now the tasks are being handed to everyone. The time for small skirmishes is over. This time, we shall truly be going to war.”

She watched the Drow leave with the guard, thinking about the true meaning of her own words.

“I hoped I would _never_ see this day come,” she murmured forlornly. “’Twas wishful thinking, after all, it seems. As long as the Enemy is still sitting in his dark tower, there will never be true peace in our forests. A pity, it truly is.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egilstadir and his family used to be characters from my original fantasy epic and belonged to a race that was called the Moon-Elves. I have adopted them into “The Trials of a Woodland King” as Nandor Elves, and they have been part of my Ardaverse ever since.  
> The trivia about Elven women being greatly weakened by giving birth is actually canon. So is the fact that those who devoted their lives to healing usually did not touch weapons anymore.  
> The ships mooring at Esgaroth are similar to the Viking cargo ships named _knarr_. They could handle ocean voyages every bit as well as the famous longships (or warships), the _drakkar_. Neither needed a harbour but could land on beeches or river banks anywhere.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 07**

Princess Silivren had been right. This time, the Woodland Elves were going to war in earnest. A fleeting glance at the King’s fortress, buzzing with activity like a beehive, was enough for the experienced eye to recognize the signs.

The Elvenking intended to confront the enemy in a place of his own choice, as far from his Halls as possible. And yet, the underground city itself was being prepared for a siege – in case that they would be unable to prevent it. Drizzt could see the empty wine barrels being placed everywhere within the halls, now filled with water, for though the rooms themselves had been carved into stone, a fire still could have caused great damage, and the upper levels had no direct access to the watergate under the King’s cellars and the Forest River that flowed below.

Empty chambers on each level were assigned as pantries, where enough dried and salted meat and fish, dried fruits, acorns and berries were hoarded in large earthenware pots to feed the defenders… for a considerable length of time, if necessary. ‘Twas a fortunate thing that – properly wrapped in leaves – _lembas_ could be stored for almost infinite time, and that it could nourish Elves longer than any other kind of food. Those were the emergency reserves, though, only to be touched when everything else was already gone.

The Halls of the King were now housing ten times as many people as usually lived there. The small homesteads scattered all over the forest had been emptied. Children and those with no fighting skills (these were few: usually women who had recently given birth and were still weakened, or healers who had foresworn weapons of war) had been sent to the safety of the fortress. There they could still make themselves useful, by taking care of the food and water supplies or readying the herbs and potions and bandages that would undoubtedly be needed to treat the wounded.

Everyone else was making preparations for the battle itself. Wood-Elves were no great sword-fighters as a rule, but they were deadly with their long knives, and with their arrows they could hit the eye of a bird in the dark from a hundred paces. These and other weapons were now carefully examined and all possible flaws righted. The smiths worked furiously to fit as many of the simple leather hauberks with small metal plates as possible. Even so, this primitive armour would offer woefully little protection – but it was still better than nothing at all. What little resources the Elvenking had, he had spent on weapons for his warriors. Weapons were more important than armour, and he had to set his priorities.

Alagos’ people, the Elcheryn, did not even have that; just hard leather jerkins and shadowy grey and brown clothes. Elusive and secretive by nature, they based their tactic on stealth, moving around unseen on the treetops and killing the Orcs from behind, without mercy or regret.

“ _Yrch_ have no honour,” summarized Alagos. “We are not obliged to give them an honourable fight.”

Drizzt only shrugged. He could not care less whether the filthy Orcs were given a fair chance or not. They would not give the Elves a chance, either. They were foul, mindless beasts; they did not deserve anything better.

The only ones who went armoured were the mounted warriors from Dor-Lelmin: the cavalry of the Nandor tribe, Silinde’s kinfolk. Although Drizzt, being new to Middle-earth, could not make this comparison, the Nandor warriors were the Elven equivalent of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, the elite of all Elven troops in these days. Standing within the Elvenking’s magic gates at Silinde’s side, Drizzt watched their approach in awe.

First came the warriors, arranged in pairs, riding slowly along the arched tunnel created by the huge beeches on both sides of the path, leading a long line of heavily loaded pack horses. The Lord of Dor-Lelmin had apparently moved everything he could to the safety of Thranduil’s Halls, not to least for the proper feeding of his own subjects.

The Nandor warriors were clearly divided into two groups. The majority of them looked a good deal like Silinde herself: they were taller than the Silvan folk and more powerfully built, especially the archers among them, and seemed to be from the same stock as Brandor, the bowman, and his brothers. They were also ash-blond and blue-eyed.

The nobles, who – unlike the rest of their people – never married outside the tribe, still showed the very ancient Nandor features that could no-where else be found among the Fair Folk. They were tall and slender, looking deceivingly fragile, had high foreheads and cheekbones, finely-shaped features and long, elegant eyes that were wide and surprisingly dark, almost indigo blue. Their long hair, adorned only with delicate, thin braids, flowed down their somewhat narrow backs like silk, and had a pale gold hue, just this side from silver, like the moonlight. Unlike the common folk that consisted mostly of bowmen, the nobles were armed with long swords and steel armour that was painted dark grey, so that its glint would not betray them to the enemy.

The horses they rode were magnificent; so very different from the smaller, hardier ones of the Silvan folk that changed the colour of their coats with the changing of seasons. _These_ horses were big yet graceful beasts, clean-limbed, with coats like pure silver, dappled with white over all their bodies. Their long tails and silky manes were the same pale gold as the hair of their riders, and each of them bore a small white star in the middle of its forehead. They moved with easy grace, even the more common ones carrying the heavy sacks, as if they were dancing along the shadowy alley.

“They are the best-armed troops I have seen so far,” judged Drizzt. “A shame that there are so few of them.”

“They are the remnants of a once numerous clan of nobles who could track their bloodline back to the First Age,” replied Silinde. “They once belonged to the people of Lenwë, but most of them perished in the First Battle of Beleriand, buying the only true victory of Elves against the Great Enemy with their blood. The handful of families that had survived moved eastwards after the Fall of Doriath, and eventually settled in Dor-Lelmin, gathering the scattered Nandorim from Ossiriand around themselves.”

“Do you hail from one of those families?” asked Drizzt.

Silinde laughed. “Nay, I am of common stock and happy enough that way,” she replied. “Come now, I shall introduce you to Prince Egilstadir. You are supposed to ride with them to the defence of Dale and Esgaroth.”

“I thought I was to ride to Dol Guldur with the King’s forces,” said Drizzt in surprise.

Silinde shook her head. “Not right away. There has been a slight change of plans. We shall try to hold the approach of the enemy far enough from our home, but the Men in Dale and Esgaroth will need help. Our scouts have sent word that a huge army of Easterlings is moving against them; those have mounted troops, while the Men along the Lake have not. After the first battle, our troops will unite in the appointed place and move on to Dol Guldur together.”

“If there will be enough troops left,” added Drizzt gloomily. Silinde shrugged.

“If we do not trust our strength, we can as well lay down our weapons and allow the enemy to massacre us,” she said. Drizzt sighed.

“True enough,” he admitted. “Those Easterlings… what kind of creatures are they?”

“Ordinary Men who chose to serve Sauron, for reasons of their own,” replied Silinde. “They are cruel, barbaric, war-like, and capable of doing unspeakable things to their own kind.”

“Most Men are,” said Drizzt. “I would still prefer to fight against Orcs, though.”

“So would I,” answered Silinde, “but one rarely can choose one’s enemies. Come now. You need to meet Prince Egilstadir.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Prince Egilstadir, although he shared the ageless, youthful fairness of his kind, was a mature Elf, who had fought through the War of the Elves and Sauron that continued throughout half the Second Age; and he had stood upon the battle plain of Dagorlad, leading the Nandor archers in the stead of his gravely wounded father in that final struggle. A thin scar across his left cheek – the reminder of a poisoned wound – proved that he had faced his enemies unwaveringly ‘til the very end.

Despite his grim past as a seasoned warrior, he was a surprisingly easygoing and good-natured person, who took the appearance – and, indeed, the very existence – of Drizzt in a stride.

“It seems that the epithet ‘Dark Elf’ has just gained a whole new meaning,” he murmured, with an amused glint in his dark eyes. “If only those haughty returnees from Valinor could learn what a Dark Elf truly is!”

“’Tis ironic that they called _us_ Dark Elves, just because we never abandoned the place of our birth to the Enemy so that we could see their precious Trees,” Silinde agreed, her eyes glittering like blue ice. “Well, they might have thought that they were something better – and where are they now? Dead in Mandos’ Halls, or back to Valinor, with their tails between their legs like kicked dogs. _We_ , on the other hand, are still here.”

Drizzt was surprised by the near-hostile tone of her words, but Egilstadir only shook his head in tolerant amusement.

“You have spent too much time in Avari company, Silinde,” he said. “You already think like them.”

“I happen to agree with them,” replied Silinde primly, “and they are good company. Not great at ritual stuff, but the best to have to watch your back.”

“There is some truth in that,” admitted Egilstadir; then he turned to the Drow and offered him the traditional warrior’s greeting. “I welcome you to our troops, Drizzt Do’Urden from the House Do’Urden. ‘Tis an honour that you chose to come with us. I regret that our armour is too big for you to wear; but I can see that the armour you have acquired is every bit as good as our own. ‘Tis Dwarven handiwork, is it not?”

Drizzt nodded. “I am less… paranoid towards Dwarves than Elves of this world seem to be,” he answered simply.

Egilstadir laughed. “You will see that not all Elves consider Dwarves with the same deep suspicion as the uncle of my beloved wife does,” he said. “In any case, I am glad that you are coming with us. You are a creature of the night, and your abilities will come in handy when we face the enemy. For I wish not to lie to you: we are hopelessly outnumbered.”

“My magical abilities, such as they were, were stripped off me after I had left the Underdark,” said Drizzt. “Only my fighting skills remained, as they had come to me through long years of hard training, not through Drow magic. All I can offer you now are the skills of a fellow warrior.”

“And those are mightily welcome,” replied Egilstadir, “for a single blade can decide the fate of an entire battle sometimes. But are you truly certain that you have lost everything else? Magic, such as it is, comes not to us from outside; it lives deep within us and can be called upon in times of need. What were the things you could do once and now cannot?”

“I could call upon a globe of darkness and hide within it, leaving my enemy at a disadvantage,” answered Drizzt with a shrug. “Or float high in the air by sheer willpower. I could cast spells, fight off attacks against my mind… that sort of thing. But no longer.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Egilstadir.

“I have tried,” said Drizzt, “and failed. It took some time, but slowly, one by one, all those things were lost. I have tried to get them back, but to no avail.”

“Or mayhap the need was not great enough,” said Egilstadir simply. “We shall see, my friend, when it grows greater.”

“When do we leave?” asked Drizzt.

“By sunset,” replied the prince. “Meet me in my tent an hour before. I shall have a horse for you.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Late in that same afternoon, Drizzt spoke his farewells to the friends he had made among the Wood-Elves who were to go with different troops to different battlefields. He felt it particularly hard to part ways with Alagos, his very first friend it this world, and with Silinde who had become his closest friend here, but it had to be. They all had their own place in the upcoming great battle and had to go where they would be of the most use. Having done that, he went to the spacious clearing near the Elvenking’s Halls, where the small green tents of the Nandor Elves had been erected.

Egilstadir was just about to don his armour when Drizzt entered – that armour piquing the Drow’s interest, as it was different from anything he had seen before. The Nandor Elves still wore the same battle gear as in the Second Age: a gear not only of utmost practicality but also of great beauty, decorated with the carved or inlaid images of leaves or gossamer and giving the bearer the air of a being not from this world.

Egilstadir stood in the middle of the tent, wearing dark green leggings and a long-sleeved, pale green shirt of soft wool. An attendant was helping him into a hauberk made of very fine yet strong links of _mithril_ mail that was long enough to cover his slender torso to mid-thigh and was slit on both sides to the waist, so that he could ride in it undisturbed; the long sleeves ended at his deceptively slim wrists. The prince’s long, pale gold hair was tightly braided and twisted into a knot on the top of his head, so that it would fit under the coif of his mail shirt.

The attendant now brought his cuirass. It was made up of six long, interlacing lames of pure mithril, joined with leather loops that were riveted above and below. The upper three lames were elongated so that they passed over his shoulders and protected the upper part of his chest, coming together to join the backplates by means of a rivet. The three lower ones protected the lower part of his chest and his belly. All six lames curved around his torso, to end in a vertical row under the backplates. Drizzt eyed the breastplate appreciatively, finding the construction truly ingenious. It seemed to him that each row of the lames was hemmed with another strip of grommeted metal, by the means of which all lames were laced together, using points, which allowed the top of the cuirass to lie tightly on the body yet remain flexible, enabling the wearer to bend in every direction, leaving his neck free in a V-shaped opening. There the attendant placed a _mithril_ collar, adorned with the emblem of Lord Aghavannagh’s House.

The battle-skirt, also known as a fauld, was attached to the breastplate by means of leathers. It was made of seven long, overlapping lames that were looped together in similar fashion as the breastplate and curved around the hips to protect the lower torso and upper thighs. To further protect Egilstadir’s arms, the attendant laid on bracers and pauldrons, the lames both of which were riveted together and strapped to the breastplate and to his _mithril_ -strengthened gloves respectively, with leathers.

“What, no leg armour?” teased Drizzt.

Egilstadir laughed. “Even if made of _mithril_ , it would only slow me down… and chafe on the flank of my horse. Nay, the helmet is more important.”

Said helmet not only covered his head, it also protected his cheeks and his nose, while it was cut out widely around his eyes, as to not narrow down his field of vision. A wide, three-string leather belt, adorned with _mithril_ buttons and holding his great scabbard, completed the vision of a warrior prince, seemingly stepping out of ancient tales. Only his shadow-grey cloak, made far south, in the Golden Wood, was the same as that of everyone else of his troops.

They left Egilstadir’s tent together, and two horses were led to them, both of the dappled silver-grey breed of the Nandor Elves. One of them very obviously belonged Egilstadir, while the other one was offered to Drizzt. He carefully reached out to stroke the long, delicate face of the horse. Whatever the intention of the Nandor Elves had been, it was ultimately up to the horse to accept him – or to reject him.

For a moment, the horse – a young stallion, he realized, somewhat smaller and of lighter build than the others – flattened his ears and narrowed his eyes. Drizzt waited patiently. Finally, the horse calmed down, sniffed at his dark hand and bumped it with his soft nose.

Egilstadir grinned. “Good. He has accepted you. You may mount.”

Drizzt saw in relief that the Nandor Elves, unlike their Silvan cousins, _did_ believe in saddles and other horse gear – not that it would have been so surprising. They were Elven knights, after all, akin to heavy cavalry; they could not risk to be thrown from their mounts easily.

Another attendant came and handed Egilstadir his shield. It was lozenge-shaped, pointed on both ends and large enough to cover his entire torso, while the cut-out sections on either sides of its navel allowed him to strike out with a sword or a spear. The upper part was decorated with engraved Tengwar characters, and the edges were sharp – in dire need, it could also be used as a weapon. It was coloured green, and the navel bore the emblem of his House.

Drizzt, too, was offered a similar, though simpler shield, but he refused politely.

“I am not one to fight mounted,” he said, “thus a shield this big would do me but little good.”

“You fight on foot?” asked Egilstadir in surprise.

Drizzt nodded. “And with both hands, too. I only need the horse to get me to the battlefield. My scimitars can do twice as much damage when I mingle with the enemy.”

“That makes good sense,” agreed the prince. “Whatever suits you better. Now,” he turned to his standard bearer, “are we ready?”

The Elf bowed. “Your knights are prepared to leave, my Prince.”

“Let us not tarry any longer, then,” ordered Egilstadir, and the Nandor Elves, accompanied by one lone Drow, rode down along the Forest River towards the Long Lake.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After the destruction by the Dragon, the Men of Laketown had rebuilt their town, more fair and large, further north up the shore, where once the much more ancient town of Esgaroth had stood. What Drizzt could see in the reddish light of the sunset was a sizeable town, built on a large wooden platform, supported by great pillars sunk far into the bottom of the Long Lake. The platform paralleled the west shore of the lake, north of the Forest River. In the lee of the promontory lay a protected bay with a shelving shore, on which stood a few huts and small buildings, probably used for storage. One was a guardhouse at the end of a great wooden bridge that ran out to the town.

At the far end of the bridge were gates, and beyond those was the compact little town itself, with a great number of two-storied buildings, built with only narrow passages between them, using every square foot of space in the best possible way. More familiar with Mannish settlements than his elusive cousins of Middle-earth, Drizzt calculated, that – depending on the size of families and dwelling places – the town could have housed a thousand people… or more. It was fairly impressive, to tell the truth.

A wide quay was left on all sides of the platform, from which steps led down to the water – save the east side, which apparently served as a port. Small, wide-bellied, dragon-necked ships were moored on that side, their long oars pulled in and fixed in an almost vertical position, their small, square sails rolled tightly. They were clinker-built, meaning that each hull plank overlapped its neighbour, and each had only one mast. They were roughly fifty feet in length and sixteen feet wide – not the size of some great warships.

“An armada?” asked Drizzt, mildly amused.

“Nay,” smiled Egilstadir, “a merchant fleet. “In the great days of old, the merchant houses of Esgaroth were wealthy and powerful, and there were much greater fleets of boats on the waters, and some were filled with gold and some with warriors in armour, and there were wars and deeds which are now only a legend. Yet even in these lesser days, you must not underestimate the Men of Esgaroth. Theirs is the oldest town in Rhovanion, even though it had to be rebuilt several times. And it has always been ruled by the heads of the great merchant houses – by their tradesmen who have journeyed as far to the South as Pelargir and Ethring for at least as long as a whole Age. No-one knows how old the town truly is, though, as no-one can remember a time when it was not here.”

“Not even you?” asked Drizzt.

“We have only dwelt here for the last two Ages,” replied Egilstadir with a grin, “but yea, these people have been there at least that long.”

The gates on the far end of the bridge opened now, and the Master of Esgaroth came out in his esteemed person to greet them – not a small gesture of respect, as he was himself a highly respected and powerful person among his own people. An elderly Man he was, clad in a long, fashionably cut gown of fine black wool, with snow white hair fawning out from under a richly embroidered black velvet cap and spread in thick waves over his slightly bent shoulders. He had a long, sharply featured, clean-shaven face and piercing, dark blue eyes. Something in his mannerism reminded Drizzt of the late Cassius, Spokesman of Byrn Sander and the Ruling Council of Ten Towns… it was _not_ a pleasant memory. Nonetheless, he welcomed the Elves in a friendly enough manner.

“I offer you greetings and the hospitality of our town, good sirs,” he said in his slightly trembling voice. “Never shall we forget the generous help of Elves with the saving of our people and with the rebuilding of our town after the Dragon’s assault on Laketown. Please, enter and rest after your journey.”

“We thank you, Master Ketill,” replied Egilstadir, “but we have come to aid you in your fight against the Easterlings, and thus will remain on the lakeshore, for the time being.”

The old Man nodded. “And we are mightily grateful for that, my lord Prince, for we can use any help that we are offered. Do you wish to meet our spymaster and the captain of our warriors?”

“The spymaster first, if you do not mind, good sir,” answered Egilstadir. “Our own archers are on their way and will meet with your captain as soon as they arrive, but until then, we need to plan our move against our enemies.”

“As you wish,” bowed Master Ketill. “I shall send him to you, then… unless you want to come into the city, that is.”

Egilstadir shook his head. “Not at the moment… afterwards mayhap, if we get the chance. I would hear news of the troop movements of the Easterlings first.”

The Master of Esgaroth had no objections and retreated into his town to give the necessary orders.

The spymaster, when he came out a few minutes later to meet them, impressed Drizzt a great deal… but not necessarily in a good way. A handsome Man he was, this spymaster, and while Drizzt appreciated the comeliness of the shape, he remained watchful of the mind within. The Man was not so tall as the sailors manning the merchant ships seemed to be, but tall enough to carry his firm and graceful body well. He moved with a pleasing ease and power beside his squat and well-muscled fellow townsmen, mayhap due to some blood of the Men of Dale in his veins, who belonged to a different breed. His thick russet hair clustered in tight curls over his shapely head, and his dark, haughty eyes were set deep beneath thick brows, darker brown than his hair. His cheeks were shaven clean, but a narrow line of dark, curly beard neatly, cropped and combed, seamed his strong jawline.

“Turcaill my name is, my lord Prince,” he said with an elegant bow; his voice, though not particularly deep, every bit as rich as his clothing. “The Master says you wanted to speak with me?”

“Indeed,” replied Egilstadir, “for we need to know where the troops of the Easterlings are right now and how they are organized. I assume you are the right person to answer my questions,”

“Most certainly, my lord Prince,” said the spymaster. “I know them well enough, as I have blood-kin among them: the son of my older sister Heledd, whom the men of Siltric jarl have taken during a raid. We never succeeded in rescuing her – or buying her free – but she always found a way to send us words of warning; and her son Ásgeirr kept doing the same after her untimely death.”

“I find it surprising – and encouraging – that they still side with your people, and bravely enough to help you,” said Egilstadir.

For his part, Drizzt found it suspicious and hard to believe but chose not to speak up just yet.

The spymaster shrugged. “The people of Rhûn are divided among themselves,” he said. “While their greatest jarl, Ragnar the Smith, who already sees himself as the King of Rhûn, is cautiously reluctant to aid the armies of the Black Land as far as he can afford it, many of the powerful jarls who have set their eyes on his position are all too eager to do some warring and pilfering of their own. Rhûn is a huge, untamed country; great parts of it are uninhibited. Ragnar the Smith cannot control what the jarls are doing, and they make their own alliances.”

“I am told that Ragnar forged a truce with the Riddermark a few years ago,” said Egilstadir.

The spymaster nodded. “He has. But his might only extends over the warriors of his own household – although he has the largest one in the entire country – and cannot hinder the great jarls, who are still largely their own lords, from raiding the other lands as they please… or from going to war on Dol Guldur’s behalf.”

“How many warriors might they have?” asked Egilstadir.

“Their numbers are high,” answered the spymaster. “Every free-born man of each Khimmer tribe is a warrior, born and trained to fight, even those who work as weaponsmiths or bronzesmiths between raids. Their lands are wide but not very fertile, and what little their Mordvin slaves can unlock from the ungrateful soil, is often taken by Orcs or wolves. That is why they always circle our borders – to get their hands on food, on cattle, on horses, on slaves… on anything they can take.”

“Sauron is not a benevolent lord, not even towards his own allies,” said Egilstadir in agreement. “How many troops should we count on, though? Can you give me any numbers at all?”

“The jarls whose lands lie northwest from the Sea of Rhûn have warriors in the thousands,” replied the spymaster. “And as their raiding parties have not been challenged much lately, I assume they will be confident. They will send all the men they can spare, to conquer us in a single devastating attack. We shall be vastly outnumbered, I fear.”

“We are used to it,” said Egilstadir with a shrug. “However, it would be a great help if we could catch hem unaware, somewhere still on their way, instead of letting them get close to Esgaroth. Can you predict the path they would likely follow?”

“I can do better than that,” answered the spymaster. “Your answer is coming up the River Running right now, my lord Prince.”

Egilstadir and Drizzt followed the line of his outstretched hand and saw a ship coming up the river indeed: a vessel shaped for speed, perhaps eighteen paces long and no more than three or four wide. It was clinker-built, too, but shallow of draught, light of weight for its strength and speed, the two ends identical for instant manoeuvring. Nay, this ship was not meant for shipping bulky freight but for carrying messages in a great hurry, depending more on her rowers than on the sail hanging from the single mast that was lowered aft.

The captain of the little serpent-ship was a large, heavy-set, flaxen-haired young man, his huge arms bare and sun-burned from spending his entire life on the water, his eyes piercing blue in his smooth, tanned face. He stood in the front, ready to leave his ship at the first convenient time.

“That is Leifdall,” said the spymaster, “our chief messenger. We have sent him out to spy upon the Easterling troops.”

They watched as the barrel-chested, bare-armed steersman brought the sleek little craft close in beneath the grassy bank, to a spot were it was child’s play to leap ashore over the low rim. There the young Leidfdall jumped onto the bank and waved his men to bring the vessel into the harbour.

“Greetings, Master Turcaill,” he called cheerfully, showing large white teeth. “I see the cavalry has arrived. When do we set to water again?”

“It depends on where the Easterlings choose to march, how many of them there are, and how well they are armed,” replied the spymaster stiffly.

“They have come up along the River, as expected,” said the young man with a shrug. “They have rested where the Redwater meets the River Running and are planning to rest again halfway to the Lake. They wish to come up against us under the mantle of the night, two days from now, and attack us in our sleep, as they have tried many times before – and failed. They just never learn, it seems.”

“In that case,” said Egilstadir, “we shall turn their own tactic against them. If we ride off within the hour, we could be at their planned camp for tomorrow at nightfall.”

Young Leifdall gave him a doubtful glance. “You could do that? Clad in armour as you are?”

“Our armour is light and our horses can bear the burden,” said Egilstadir. “Neither do I doubt that our archers are light-footed enough to keep up with us. The question is: can we bring your warriors there in time?”

The spymaster furrowed his brow. “’Tis possible if we bring them down the River on ships,” he said. “We need to ask Master Bowman Otir, though, whether they could be ready quickly enough.”

A young lad was sent back to the town to call the captain of Esgaroth’s foot soldiers, and soon thereafter a Man of fifty years or more came to join their council. Thick-set he was, barrel-chested, built like the bole of a tree and his skin burned reddish brown by the sun and the spray, like that of most people dwelling in Laketown. His straw-coloured hair framed his broad face in two braids, and his long moustaches hung lower than his square jaw. He was bare-armed to the shoulder but for the wristguards of every good archer protecting his forearms.

He listened to them with the quiet intensity of a man used to the burdens of command and to the responsibility for his men’s lives. Drizzt liked him immediately. Both Otir and Leifdall reminded him of Wulfgar and his fellow barbarians, who had had their own strict codex of honour – although a very different one from that of other Men – and followed it relentlessly. Drizzt had the feeling that the soldiers of Esgaroth would do the same; he was not so certain about the merchants and their associates, though.

He shook off the feeling. Right now, he could not allow his personal disdain for spymaster Turcaill and the likes of him to distract him from the task that had to be done. So he tried to listen to the discussion between Otir and Leifdall instead, for those two were the people who could tell him what he needed to know.

“Most of the Khimmer warriors are foot soldiers,” Leifdall was explaining to Egilstadir, “thus as hardy as they might be, that will slow down their progress a great deal. More so as they would not wish to arrive to the battle run down and exhausted. Only the sons of the jarls and their personal guards are mounted.”

“What about their weapons?” asked Otir.

“Most of them are armed with broadswords, short spears and simple battle-axes, as always,” replied Leifdall. “But those axes have only one blade, and they use them for chopping wood and butchering animals as well. Ours are Dwarf-made, and therefore much better.”

“We need them to be better all right,” growled Otir. “The Rhûnim have iron hauberks and helmets; only a very good blade can cut through _those_.”

“But they have little else,” said Leifdall. “Their arms and necks and faces are unprotected.”

“What about archers?” asked Otir.

“They have few of those, for they know not the art of making bows and thus can only use those they steal from other people,” answered Leifdall. “Their arrows, too, are heavy and clumsy, made entirely of iron, for they have more iron under those rocky hills of theirs than trees upon them; and their reach is short.”

“But within that short reach, they can do much damage,” said Otir worriedly. He then looked at Egilstadir. “The Elven archers will have to help us with this. Your longbows have a much longer reach, and your people have the sharpest eyes.”

The Elf-Prince nodded. “We shall do our best, Master Otir. But we all need to leave here as soon as possible. So do tell me: how soon can that be?”

“We shall begin to board the small and fast ships within the hour,” promised Otir. “If you provide the archers, we can leave our own behind to protect the town and bring more axe-fighters and swordsmen instead. Those are the ones most needed against invaders from Rhûn, once the archers and the mounted warriors have been taken care of.”

“That is good thinking on your part, Master Otir,” said Egilstadir. “I shall send winged messengers to our archers and redirect them without the need to come here first. We will all meet shortly before the _Goblin’s Den_ , tomorrow evening, an hour before nightfall. Can you manage it?”

“We can,” replied Otir. “Let us hope that the _Goblin’s Den_ is still abandoned, though, or else we will run into grave problems.”

“The Orcs of the Misty Mountains are unlikely to have strayed this far to the East, now that they are needed in the war elsewhere,” stated Egilstadir calmly. “But we will send forth scouts nonetheless. I wish no more to walk into a trap than you do, good sir.”

“Then I am well content,” said Otir and returned to the town to put together his own troops.

They only had a short hour to have them board the ships and set sail down the River, after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have envisioned Esgaroth as the Northern version of the medieval merchant city states like Venice, just on a much smaller scale. Thus they live in a democracy ruled by the wealthiest merchant families, while their lifestyle has a lot of that of the Vikings, like the ships and sailing deep to the South with them.
> 
> The people of Rhûn have been based on the Hallstatt culture of the Iron Age; therefore they have a more primitive society. The ruling _Khimmer_ tribes have a definite likeness to the ancient Germans, while their slaves, the _Mordvin_ s, are a different breed, based on old Finno-Ugric peoples. The whole culture has originally been developed for my original fantasy universe and adapted to Tolkien’s world because they worked well enough.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 08**

“What is the _Goblin’s Den_?” asked Drizzt. He was riding slowly on Egilstadir’s side, eastwards along the River Running, with the rest of the Elven knights in trail. They had forded the River right under the remnants of Laketown, where it was still shallow enough for the horses to wade across, and were now following the northern bank of the River. The landscape here was quite bleak; he could barely see aught else but short grass and small, crippled shrubs, with here and there a cluster of knotted old trees. The lands were still recovering from the desolation of the Dragon.

“A rocky hill, halfway between the Long Lake and the place where the Redwater meets the River,” answered Egilstadir. “They say it had once been the easternmost watchpost of the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, although that might be a mere legend. In any case, there is a large, dry cave under the hill, and so wandering Dwarves often use it as a resting and meeting place; more so as it can be easily found.”

“Would then the Easterlings not do the same?” asked Drizzt in concern.

Egilstadir shook his head. “The hiding place would be large enough for a raiding troop or two, but not for an army,” he said. 

“Still, ‘tis likely that they would rest at the feet of the hill,” said Drizzt, “as it is well known to everyone.”

“We count on that,” replied Egilstadir, “as it would make so much easier to find them.”

“If they will indeed come that way,” murmured Drizzt.

Egilstadir shrugged. “The Lakemen know these lands better than anyone else, and their scouts are among the best. I see no reason to mistrust them.”

“Men are treacherous by their very nature,” retorted Drizzt, “so there is _always_ a good reason to mistrust them. Even more so those who admittedly have blood in the camp of the enemy.”

“You mean spymaster Turcaill?” asked Egilstadir in surprise. “Surely you must be mistaken. He has served the Master of Esgaroth in this capacity for twenty-tow summers, I am told, and has always been faithful.”

“Faithful… or just very good,” replied Drizzt dryly. “I might not have lived thousands of years like you have, but the bigger part of my life I have spent among Men, so I dare to say that I know them well enough. That spymaster… he serves no other interest than his own. Esgaroth can only count on him as long as the safety of the town serves his interests. And with his knowledge of the town’s inner structure and workings, it would be lethal for Esgaroth, should he decide to look after a more… profitable place.

Egilstadir gave him a bewildered look. “What has he done to make you doubt his sincerity this much?” he asked. “Esgaroth is his home, the place where he has risen among the ranks to one of the most important men of the entire town; where he has gained considerable wealth and respect – why would he give up all that?”

“For a position even better perhaps?” guessed Drizzt. “Consider this: should the Rhûnim conquer Esgaroth – and possibly Dale, too – it would not be in their interest to destroy the town. They might be barbarians, but they are no fools, or they would not have lasted this long. Controlling the trade of Esgaroth and taking the winnings for themselves would be much more profitable for them. And for that, they would need a steward to replace the Master of the town.”

“And that steward would be Turcaill?” asked Egilstadir doubtfully. “Why should they choose him, of all people?”

“He is blood,” pointed out Drizzt, “and he already knows the place and the people.”

“I would not call someone whose sister I have taken by force _blood_ ,” argued Egilstadir. “Besides, she is dead.”

“Do we know that?” asked Drizzt. “That is what Turcaill says, but do we have any proof of it? Or indeed that she was taken by force in the first place? What if Turcaill’s father had married her off at the right time, to ensure his own position, whatever turns the struggle for these lands might take? I find it highly suspicious that a slave woman should have been able to keep sending word to her family all this time. And that her son not only followed her example but also managed to rise to warrior status, despite being born into slavery.”

“We do not know _that_ ,” said Egilstadir.

“Only a warrior can know about tactical plans and troop movements,” reminded him Drizzt. “And not just any warrior, either, but one close to the lord of a particular region… a jarl as these people seem to call their chieftains. I do not doubt the sincerity of Master Bowman Otir or young Leifdall, but as for Turcaill… I would be wary towards him if I were you.”

“’Tis never mistaken to be careful,” said Egilstadir in agreement. “Still, I cannot believe that Master Turcaill would wish to play Esgaroth into the hands of some Easterling chieftain, not even if he is indeed related to them by marriage. The Lakemen are, as a rule, fiercely jealous of their wealth and independence. And they are proud of the long history of their town.”

“Yet he might seek an alliance with Rhûn to strengthen Esgaroth’s position as opposed to that of Dale,” pointed out Drizzt. “Or do you believe he has the same loyalty towards Dale? Or towards the Dwarves of Erebor for that matter?”

 _That_ made Egilstadir think, and by the clouded expression of his fair face, his thoughts could not have been very pleasant.

“’Tis true that Dale and Erebor have competed against each other since the very beginning of both towns’ history,” he finally admitted. “Both wanted control over the Long Lake in its entirety, and over the trade routes of old that led all across Rhovanion and Eriador and down south as far as Umbar.”

“Which one of the two emerged from that struggle victorious?” asked Drizzt.

“It was always an even match,” replied Egilstadir. “Esgaroth has always been much better at trading and boating, but Dale had always had the better craftsmen and soldiers… until the Dragon came, that is.”

“What happened then?” asked Drizzt.

“The water protected the Lakemen, who hid beneath the platform upon which their town had been built,” answered Egilstadir. “Although Smaug had little interest in them to begin with. Why should he have? ‘Twas the riches of the Dwarves that he desired most, and he had much easier play with the unprotected town of Dale. Legolas happened to be visiting the town when the Dragon came; the fire raining from the skies still gives him nightmares sometimes. It was a terrible thing.”

“What became of the Men of Dale?” asked Drizzt.

Egilstadir sighed. “A great many of them died in dragonfire, of course,” he said. “Those who escaped, fled to other Mannish settlements: to the Woodmen of Mirkwood, or to the Northmen who still dwell at the sources of the Greyflood. Most of them, however, fled to Laketown, where they served as watchmen and archers, 'til the Dragon fell.”

“But I thought the Dragon destroyed Laketown,” said Drizzt.

“He did,” Egilstadir nodded grimly. “The Lakemen rebuilt their town on the original spot, the place they had once abandoned in their greed to have their settlement on a better location, with easier access to the deeper streaming of the River. The Wood-Elves of King Thranduil helped them very much after the fall of the town; and the Dwarves paid them a more than handsome reparation afterwards.”

“Did the Lakemen never blame the Dwarves for the loss of Laketown?” Drizzt could not truly believe that they had not done so. He had seen often enough how quick Men could be to blame everyone but themselves for their losses. It had been so in Faerûn, and he doubted that it would be all that different in Middle-earth.

“They did, for a while,” admitted Egilstadir. “Yet when their first grief was over, they realized that the old town had been on a much better spot, after all, and were glad to return there. Esgaroth now has almost reached the size of the ancient town – which was twice that of Laketown – their fleet has been doubled in numbers, and they have good trade relations to Erebor and Dale, instead of having the Dragon looming above their heads. They are much better off now, and they know that.”

“All of them?” asked Drizzt seriously. “What if some of them still hold grudges for lost friends or family? What if some of them no more welcome the competition from Dale than they had before the coming of the Dragon? What if they envy the wealth of the Dwarves or their friendship with the Men of Dale?”

“Some of them perchance do,” said Egilstadir. “I still cannot imagine, though, that Master Turcaill – or anyone else – would betray their fellow townspeople to the Easterlings. Rhûn is allied to Mordor, after all.”

“What about fear, then?” asked Drizzt. “What I have learned from Mordor, its huge armies are a horrible threat to all free peoples of Middle-earth. What if some of the Lakemen are simply trying to buy freedom, even limited freedom, for themselves?”

“Nay,” replied Egilstadir with determination. “You are interpreting too much into your dislike towards spymaster Turcaill. There has never been any sign of the Lakemen doing any sort of business with the Easterlings.”

“Or mayhap you have been blind… all of you,” replied Drizzt flatly, and for a long while, they rode wordlessly side by side, neither of them willing to change his mind.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They had travelled more than half of the way when two young, glossy-black ravens arrived with tidings. Drizzt did not know heir language, so he had to wait ‘til Egilstadir finished his conversation with the birds. Fortunately for him, the ravens were in a great hurry, and as soon as they had told their news continued their way towards the Lonely Mountain.

Egilstadir seemed disturbed by what he had heard.

“Apparently, the warlords of the Easterlings have divided their forces,” he said. “The more numerous army of them has left two days earlier and has been on its way to Dale ever since. The ravens have warned the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, and these have already sent out an army of their own, to Erebor’s aid.”

Drizzt gave him a pointed look. “Are you still so certain that this is a mere coincidence?” he asked. “Seems a bit too convenient to me.”

“It _can_ be a coincidence,” replied Egilstadir. “The Easterlings may be barbarians, but they are no fools. They could have thought of such a move on their own. And everyone knows that you would need the stronger, more numerous troops against the Dwarves. They are fierce warriors. Nay, I do not see this as a proof for betrayal from the Lakemen’s side.”

Drizzt shook his head in exasperation but argued no more. He had the feeling that Alagos – or, indeed, the Elvenking himself – would be more willing to listen to his doubts than this fair prince who had spent the last hundreds (if not thousands) of years in isolation, among his own people. One needed to deal with Men regularly to know their dubious nature. While it was true that some of them were exceedingly noble and honourable, too many of them had a tendency to be treacherous, in order to protect their own interests.

His attention was soon turned away from his doubts, though, when his keen ears caught the still far-away noise of marching feet. _Many_ marching feet those were, and heavy ones at that. Somewhere ahead of them was an army on hard march, approaching them quickly.

“That must be the forces of the Iron Hills, on their way to Erebor,” said Egilstadir, listening to the thumping noise. “We should better free the path for them, for a Dwarven army on the march is like a force of nature; they roll over everything in their way.”

The Elven knights regrouped, forming a single line on the wayside opposite the River’s bank, just in case the Dwarves would need easy access to the water. Drizzt felt excitement rising within him. He knew what a Dwarven army had been capable of in Faelrûn, and he had the feeling that their Middle-earth cousins would be even hardier. He could barely wait to see them in their full glory and wished that Bruenor could be there with him to witness.

His expectations were more than met when finally, some two hours later, they finally came even with the marching Dwarven army. ‘Twas an impressive force, consisting of all seven Dwarven kindreds, although the majority of them – heavily scarred, grim, battle-hardened warriors – belonged to the BlackLock and IronFist clans, who traditionally bred the largest, strongest and fiercest warriors, even though the FireBeards did not fall behind them when it came to fierceness… just in size.

They were all clad in heavy armour, made of thrice-forged steel plates that could withstand a battle-axe even… as long as it was _not_ wielded by a fellow Dwarf. Their legs were covered in a special hose of steel mesh, invented by the weaponsmiths of the Iron Hills several generations earlier, and now Drizzt understood where Dáin Ironfoot had his name from. Broadswords hung on their hips and battle-axes were strapped to their broad backs, large enough for a full-grown Man’s use. 

There were even some archers among them, carrying heavy bows that were as large and themselves and as thick as their arms, requiring a strength to pull their strings that no other creature in Middle-earth would possess. On their backs, the archers also carried quivers with thick, armour-piercing bolts, and the bows themselves had blades on both ends, in case the archers should find themselves in close quarter combat.

They had brought no pack animals, as those would only have slowed them down. Instead, they bore everything they might need on the long march, and later in the camp, themselves, carrying sacks so heavy that they would have made even Bruenor strain and stumble. Yet these bore them as if they were naught but small bread bundles. Once again, Drizzt could not help but be awed by their strength and endurance.

Most of them marched on foot, even their troop leaders, who could be recognized on their elaborate helmets and artfully forged armour. Only the messengers galloped along the column on sturdy, thick-necked hill ponies. Knowing how heavy a fully-grown Dwarf could be, especially one in full armour, Drizzt was amazed by the ease these powerful beast carried them. No regular horse would have been able to do so, and even less the ponies he had known from home.

“Dwarf ponies are a breed unto themselves,” said Egilstadir, guessing his thoughts. “They have been specifically bred for Dwarven use by the StiffBeard and BroadBeam clans since the Elder days, and they would not bear any other creature to touch them. They are every bit as stubborn and resilient as their masters, to tell the truth.”

They both grinned, when one of the Dwarf warlords – Egilstadir recognized him by his elaborate armour, which enabled him to use his own body as a weapon and by his excellent, double-bladed axes as a Forge Guard, the rare Dwarven equivalent of a knight – must have caught the remark, for he grinned broadly, too, and, leaving the column, came up to them.

“Hail to the white knights of Dor-Lelmin,” he said in a deep voice. His almond eyes and copper beard – surprisingly short and held together by a beautifully crafted _mithril_ clasp about a hand’s breadth under his chin, while his moustaches were tipped with _mithril_ , too – marked him as a member of the IronFist clans. Most likely he belonged to King Dáin’s kindred.

“Hail to the doughty warriors of the Iron Hills,” replied Egilstadir courteously; then, furrowing his smooth brow, he asked. “Have we met before, Master Dwarf?”

The booming laughter of the Dwarf echoed from the hillside.

“A long time ago, when I was but a wee lad of barely sixty years,” he replied, “right after the Battle of the Five Armies. Höggstari I am, cousin of King Dáin on his mother’s side. My father Vestri is now Lord of the Iron Hills. At your service, my lord Prince, and that of your family.”

“And at yours,” answered Egilstadir with a bow. He needed not to introduce himself, as the Dwarf had clearly recognized him. That was the disadvantage to be an Elf among mortals – they aged and changed, while he himself did neither.

“You I know,” continued Höggstari, raking his sharp amber eyes up and down Drizzt’s silent figure, “but not this one. Is he the strange Dark Elf whom Thranduil’s tracker has found in the woods?”

“Actually, it was the King’s hunting lynx who found him,” said Egilstadir, grinning, “but yea, this is Drizzt Do’Urden from the House Do’Urden, who offered to fight on our side against the Lord of the Black Lands.”

Höggstari nodded. “We heard about him from King Dáin’s messengers,” he said. “They say he is a Dwarf-friend, and I see that his armour bears the mark of Master Glóin’s handiwork. May it protect you well in the upcoming battle, Drizzt Do’Urden from the House Do’Urden,” he added, speaking directly to Drizzt for the first time.

“Thank you, Lord Höggstari,” said Drizzt politely. “May your axes be victorious in all your battles for many years yet to come.”

“I surely hope so,” replied the Dwarf with a wolfish grin. “When this is over, though, you should come to the Iron Hills and feast with us, Dark Elf. We, too, would hear the tales about our distant cousins that you have told in Dáin’s court.”

“I will if I can,” promised Drizzt.

The Dwarf-lord nodded contentedly. “We ought to move on now, though,” he said. “The Easterlings have half a day of advantage on us; we must hurry if we do not wish to come late to the battle… which would be a shame. Fare thee well, Dark Elf”

With that, the magnificent Dwarf warrior turned and rejoined the column, bellowing out orders as he went on. The marching Dwarves sped up visibly, moving on with the unstoppable force of a landslide. Drizzt stared after them in awe.

“Will they be able to keep up this speed and still fight a battle afterwards?” he asked. “I know Dwarves are a hardy folk, but still…”

“Aulë has made them for endurance,” answered Egilstadir. “As long as they have a goal before their eyes, a purpose, they will not stop nor falter. Regardless of the numbers of troops Rhûn has sent out against Dale and Erebor, caught between the archers of the Bardlings and the two Dwarven armies they will have a long and very bloody battle to fight.”

“So will we,” replied Drizzt,” for our numbers are fairly low, and we still cannot be certain about the honesty of our allies.”

Egilstadir rolled his eyes in tolerant amusement. “You are hopeless,” he said. “I have already told you, and I tell you again: the Lakemen have never betrayed their allies since their small realm was founded. They will not do so now. They love their freedom as much as our people, or the Dwarves, or everyone else in Rhovanion.”

“We shall see,” replied Drizzt unrepentantly, and having come to a deadlock again, they rode on without a further word.


	9. Chapter 9

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 09**

'Twas a short time before sunset when they came up to the _Goblin’s Den_ : a rocky hill, roughly the shape of an anthill, with the arched entrance of a cave looking to the southwest. One did not need the darkvision of a Drow to spot the considerable army of Easterlings camping around it. They had small fires to warm their bones after the long march from their dwellings on the northwestern shore of the Sea of Rhûn, for the nights were still chilly in the East in early spring, but they kept the flames low so that they would not herald their presence from afar. Obviously, they had not counted on keen Elven eyes.

“We need to know more about their numbers ere we launch our attack on their camp,” said Egilstadir, holding his knights at safe distance. “I do not wish to walk into a trap.”

“I will go,” offered Drizzt. My darkvision is better than yours.”

He wished he could still wrap himself within a globe of darkness, but that, like other abilities he had taken for granted in the Underdark, was long gone. He was still better suited for moving around unnoticed in the shadows than any other Elf, though, so Egilstadir nodded in agreement.

“Remember, all we need are their numbers and how their troops are arranged,” he said. “Avoid any contact with them, if possible.”

‘Twas not always possible, they both knew that, but Drizzt had at least to try. He pulled a dark grey hood from his backpack to conceal his white hair, which would have betrayed him even in the dim light of the campfires, checked that both his scimitars were ready for use, and vanished in the deepening darkness without any further word.

Leaving whatever protection the meagre bushes could offer was a risky thing, but Drizzt was a Drow; the darkness embraced him like a long-lost cousin, and he melted into it. Switching to darkvision, he scanned his surroundings carefully. Most of the Easterlings were sitting in large groups around their fires, but he had to take into consideration that some of them would prefer to rest apart. Stumbling over those would have ended his scouting mission rather abruptly, thus he chose to go slowly, no matter how the hunter’s instincts screamed in his mind to move quickly ere someone would spot him.

Fortunately or him, the Easterlings did not expect an attack so far from the Long Lake. They had set a few watchers at some distance from their camp, but Drizzt slipped easily through their line. He was now carefully approaching their main camp and hoped that they would be resting in some sort of military order. That would have made guessing their numbers a lot easier.

Looking at the camp from some distance, he could begin to see the pattern in which the small fires had been kindled. They stood around the _Goblin’s Den_ in concentric circles, each circle wider than the one behind it – perchance based on the numbers of the different troops. All in all, Drizzt counted thirty-six small fires and wondered what might feed them in this bleak country that offered naught else than dry grass from the previous year. But mayhap the Easterlings had brought charcoal with them – that was easy to carry and would offer a lot of warmth, as he had learned from the people of Ten-Towns.

He decided to check out the arrangement of the different troops. In the upcoming battle, Egilstadir needed to know where to focus his archers, where to send his swordsmen and where his spear- and axe-fighters. He hoped he would be able to get close enough to the night camp of their leader as well, so that he might get an inkling about their planned route, even though he did not speak their language – which, according to Egilstadir, was unlike any other Mannish tongues spoken in the North.

Forgotten memories about spying on the barbarian tribes of Icewind Dale on behalf of the people of Ten-Towns awakened in his heart as he carefully plotted his path among the sleeping forms on the still half-frozen soil. He had to be very quiet, for these Easterlings seemed to be battle-hardened warriors, and such people were always on half alert, even this far from their intended prey, even in their sleep. But they were no match for a Dark Elf from a world that knew no light; one who had once been able to call up an enchanted darkness that not even the keenest eyes could penetrate, and wear it like a cloak.

The sun had just sunk behind the Mountains of Mirkwood in the West. ‘Twas night now, and the night was the time of the Drow. Drizzt was determined to put his hereditary advantages to good use. Invisible as a shadow in the darkness, with footfalls as quiet as those of a hunting lynx, Drizzt passed along the perimeter of the outer fires, seeking a way to the _Goblin’s Den_ , where, in a well-protected cave, he suspected the warlord of this particular army was located.

Fortunately for him, the Easterlings had had a long and hard march behind them, one that they had been forced to make on foot. Drizzt could see no horses, save for the heavily-built, cold-blooded pack animals, and even those were surprisingly few in numbers. It could be, of course, that the leader and his bodyguards had taken their steeds into the cave of the _Goblin’s Den_ for protection, but there could not be many of those, either. The cave was not large enough for that.

The tired warriors were lying on the naked earth around their fires, rolled only into their wolfskin cloaks. Most of them were sound asleep, as their heavy, even breathing revealed, and even those still sitting upright at the fire seemed to be dozing. Drizzt knew, however, that they could be fully awake and battle-ready in the wink of an eye, should he alert them, so he picked his way carefully from fire to fire, imprinting numbers, arrangements and weaponry into his memory as he went.

The Easterlings seemed a race different from both the Bardlings and the Lakemen. They were not much taller than Drizzt himself – and Drow Elves tended to be on the slight side if compared with most Men – but of a stocky, solid build with wavy, russet hair and, as he would learn later, piercing blue-grey eyes. Living in the harsh eastern vastness of Rhûn, their originally rather fair skin had become browned from the sun and cracked by the constant, cold winds that blew from Mordor, giving them a leathery, toughened appearance, which, again, reminded Drizzt of the barbarians of Icewind Dale and made him miss his friend Wulfgar all the more.

However, _these_ barbarians seemed a lot better organized than Wulfgar’s people. As Drizzt had expected, they camped in groups according to their preferred weapons. There were archers among them, but only a handful compared with the spearmen and the swordsmen; the latter carried heavy, two-handed broadswords. But the vast majority of them were the axe-fighters. Their single-bladed battle-axes were heavy, razor-sharp and elaborately forged. They must have had some excellent weaponsmiths among them, Drizzt decided.

Very few of them wore any kind of armour at all, not even as much as a breastplate, only helmets that looked like narrow-brimmed iron hats. But their weapons belts were nicely made: twice as broad as their palms and adorned with small bronze and brass figurines, and with small hooks from which sword sheaths, knives and various pouches hung - for coin, mayhap, for a tinderbox or for other small but necessary items.

Their legs were wrapped with wolfskins, held in place by thin leather straps, and their ‘shoes’, if one could call them that, were made from one piece of hard leather, pulled together with a leather string and bound to their ankles. No wonder the long march had taken its toll on them – this was not the footwear for that. But apparently, they had naught else.

“They would fight like demons for a better life,” thought Drizzt, continuing his careful way to the _Goblin’s Den_. “This will be a long and vicious battle tomorrow.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gotharr Jarl, the warlord of the army camping around the _Goblin’s Den_ , was in a thoughtful mood. He was a robust man with a thick mane of yellow locks (his mother had come from the Riddermark, if one could call being abducted from a burned-down little farmstead at the age of thirteen that), a carefully groomed, short beard slowly fading to white, and deep lines of experience etched into his broad, tanned face that still looked fairer than those of his fellow Easterlings. He also stood nearly a head above the others; tall and straight, his heavy shoulders proudly squared.

He was one of the lesser jarls, not surprisingly for someone born by a foreign slave woman, and had reached his current status partially due to his excellent fighting skills, partially to the fact that he had married Velaugh, one of the great Siltric Silkbeard’s sisters. And while Velaugh, too, was just the daughter of a lowly-born concubine, being related to the second most powerful jarl of Rhûn had been useful for the then-young warrior, hungry for power and glorious battles.

Gotharr had been steadily rising in the ranks during the last twenty summers or so. Siltric Silkbeard was not only a great warlord; he also had a keen mind for opportunities that a successful war might bring for his people, beyond the personal triumph and the rich bounty of a well-executed raid. That had made him the greatest rival of Ragnar the Smith in the struggle for the rank of the overlord of the entirety of Rhûn. Whoever would win the decades-long competition between those two mightiest jarls, would be able to call himself King of Rhûn one day.

‘Twas needless to say that Ragnar the Smith had vast advantages. Not only did he control the Deep Forges under the Mountains of Nimwarkinh, southwest from the Sea of Rhûn – forges that, or so people said, were heated by the living fire within the earth itself – he had also built excellent family ties with many important jarls, giving them his daughters as wives or asking for their daughters as wives for his sons. And as he had his personal guard built from his own sons – fourteen doughty young warriors, with only ten summers between the oldest and the youngest – that meant Ragnar’s influence was spread wide among the other tribes indeed.

He had also blood in the Riddermark, one of his daughters having wed the son of the third most powerful _ealdorman_ of the horsemen, which meant that he could carefully trade with the Rohirrim, as long as Mordor was looking the other way. That meant more and better food for his people, better and warmer clothes and blankets, and no danger of the Riders of Rohan riding out against them, as long as they left the borders of the Mark alone. For weapons and jewellery they needed not to trade: they made those in the Deep Forges, and their items were sought after not in Rhûn alone but also in the adjacent lands, especially in Khand, where the rich were very fond of the brass necklaces, bracelets, earrings and clothes pins made in Nimwarkinh. The trade had made Ragnar the Smith wealthier than any other jarl in Rhûn, enabling him to reinforce his underground halls ‘til they looked like the dwellings of some great Dwarven king.

True enough, Siltric Silkbeard had his own connections; ones that were every bit as useful. Having blood in Laketown meant not only a valuable source of information. It also meant that – through the brother of his late wife – Siltric could cut his fair share from the trade that went through Esgaroth, without having to bother with the actual trading himself. No Khimmer jarl would ever stoop as low as to waste his skills on haggling and buying and selling. But having their share of the _winnings_ was a useful thing. It fed the warriors when the Mordvin slaves labouring on the meagre fields could not, and it provided the necessary coin for new, better weapons. ‘Twas irritating that they had to buy those weapons from Ragnar, thus increasing his wealth and strengthening his position, but some things just could not be helped.

Nonetheless, Siltric’s somewhat nebulous connections in Esgaroth made Gotharr worried sometimes. He did not trust the Lakemen _not_ to betray them. True, his own mother had been a foreign slave, too, but at least the horselords were fierce, honourable warriors themselves. The Lakemen, on the other hand, were _merchants_ , interested only in collecting more wealth. Their word had no weight and they had no honour whatsoever.

Thus Gotharr eyed suspiciously the dark-haired youth, barely at warrior age, who was standing before him with a message from Siltric, his father. Young Ásgeirr was of mixed origins, in more than one sense, his late mother hailing half from Dale and half from Laketown, and it showed. Of slighter built than the Lakemen, he had the raven hair and dark eyes of the Bardlings, and his features reminded Gotharr disturbingly of those of his merchant relatives. He might have been taught not to show fear when in the presence of much greater warriors, but he was soft, almost like a girl. No wonder that Siltric had chosen one of his older sons as his heir, even if that one had been born by a concubine. No Khimmer warrior in his right mind would follow _this_ youngling into battle.

On the other hand, young Ásgeirr was of shrew mind and an excellent scout. Those traits, albeit considered less honourable than the skills of a warrior, were important, too. Thus Gotharr jarl was willing to hear what the youth was about to tell him. ‘Twas important that all Siltric’s troops moved according to the same plan, if they wanted to succeed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Having finally reached the entrance of the cave, Drizzt was relieved to see that within it was naught but a very small fire, illuminating only the middle of the cave and leaving the entrance itself in deep shadows. At the fire, he saw two Men standing upright, while a few others were resting scattered along the cave walls. It seemed to him that two or three of those were females, wearing chain mails and elaborate helmets lying next to them on the stone floor, but his attention was caught by the two males in the middle.

One of them he easily recognized as the warlord, not only by the man’s impressive size, but also by the beautifully-made breastplate he was wearing. It was washed with bronze and adorned with small wolfheads in all four corners. The man wore a wolfskin vest under the breastplate, and under the vest a knee-length, russet tunic and breeches of good, homespun wool, with well-made riding boots. That alone showed his rank, but he also had a commanding presence, an air of unquestioned authority about him that only strong leaders possessed.

The youth, on the other hand, was quite different – obviously not of pure Easterling blood, but clad even more richly and wearing finely-made weapons. Perchance the young kin of spymaster Turcaill of Esgaroth, by the looks of him. Their features were most certainly very similar. Which meant that Turcaill’s information was most likely correct… _if_ the youth, indeed, was still siding with his mother’s people.

At the moment, he was unrolling some sort of scroll before his warlord. As Drizzt’s keen night eyes could tell in the semi-darkness, it was a surprisingly well-drawn map. Even though its lines were blurred by the dancing shadows cast by the flames of the small fire, Drizzt could clearly make out the distinctive features that marked the Lonely Mountain, the Long Lake and the towns Dale and Esgaroth on the otherwise featureless plain.

He wished he could understand the rough tongue of the Easterlings, as they were apparently discussing the battle plan for the upcoming day. Fortunately, the way they followed different paths on the map with their fingertips made their intentions clear enough for someone with the calculating mind of the Drow. It seemed that they had either known of the forces of Esgaroth coming up against them – as they had mentioned the town repeatedly – or else they counted on the Lakemen doing so. The warlord showed a great deal of confidence about defeating the Lakemen easily, and then rejoining the main forces that were on the march to Dale. They seemed unaware of the coming of the Iron Hills Dwarves, though, so they might find an unpleasant surprise, even if they _did_ manage to defeat the Lakemen – an occurrence that Drizzt was determined to prevent.

They likely knew about the coming of the Nandor Elves, however, for Egilstadir’s name, too fell a few times, strengthening Drizzt’s suspicions towards spymaster Turcaill. They also mentioned King Thranduil and spoke of Orcs repeatedly, which gave Drizzt a fairly good idea of what kind of enemies the Elvenking was about to face. It seemed to him that the Easterlings were supposed to beat the Men of Esgaroth and Dale – and perchance burn down their towns in the process, although Turcaill might have made a bargain to save his home – and then attack the realm of the Wood-Elves from behind, while the Elvenking’s forces were fighting Orcs in the front.

It was a well-conceived plan, and it might even have worked, had the Easterlings not made the mistake that Men so often make: to leave Dwarves out of consideration. While it was true that Dwarves, as a rule, minded their own business, they were also fiercely loyal allies. Underestimating them because of their size or their gruff manners was a fatal mistake.

Still, even with the Dwarves’ help, the Easterlings were a serious threat for both towns and for the Wood-Elves. In Drizzt’s estimate it was clear that they could not allow these troops here to escape and rejoin their main army. And he knew it would be a hard and very bloody fight to keep them from doing so.

He decided that he had seen enough. ‘Twas time to return to Egilstadir and share his insights. But when he made attempts to move away from the cave entrance, he noticed two bearded guards, with heavy broadswords hanging from their hips, walking his way and talking in their harsh tongue gruffly… most likely relieved watchmen who were returning to their fire to rest. They were still too far away for their mortal eyes to see the Drow as aught but a shadow at the mouth of the cave, but Drizzt knew that any movement on his part would certainly alert them – and then rouse the entire camp.

‘Twas a complete stalemate, as he could not hope to fight his way through so many sturdy warriors. But suddenly, like a dream from the Dark Elf’s past, the deadly elegant form of a great hunting cat jumped out of nowhere, landing on all fours right before the flabbergasted guards, growling threateningly. Tufted ears were flattened as a sign of warning, and a stumpy tail twitched nervously.

No, it was not Guenwhyvar, of course. Guenwhyvar was lost, gone forever. But it seemed that Half-tooth had chosen to follow his new friend all the way from the Elvenking’s Halls, and now the lynx had come to his aid. Whatever it might be between him and big cats, Drizzt was eternally grateful for it.

The guards grabbed their swords, but Half-tooth sprang towards them unexpectedly, flying in a great leap past their blades, which the two Men swung futilely. They turned on their heals, charging after the lynx, and did not even call out to the rest of the camp, both eager to secure the rare trophy for themselves. Lynx were know among Easterlings, but they did not live in Rhûn, where they would find little prey and even for that would have to fight the wild wolves. Thus the skin of a lynx, worn as a tunic, counted as a rare and valuable item, and also showed off the skills of a warrior in a most complimentary manner. ‘Twas understandable that the guards did not want to let the big cat slip through their hands.

While they were on their futile chase, Drizzt moved away with the shadows in a different direction, calmly and stealthily. From the corner of an eye, he could see Half-tooth darting through the campsites of the sleeping warriors, the guards stumbling over the snoring forms of their comrades, and smiled. He knew they had no chance to catch up with the lynx, and would not dare to use their bows lest they shoot each other by accident.

Drizzt had little trouble escaping the perimeter of the camp, as the few watchmen were all distracted by the chase, laughing at their comrades’ attempts to catch the lightning quick cat. Drizzt ran across the open plain undetected, his mind already forming plans for a successful ambush that would help them beat the Easterlings in the next morn.

In the meantime, it had become fully dark. The noise of the surprised Easterlings soon died away; the watchmen had apparently given up the chase. A little later, the sleek form of Half-tooth appeared on Drizzt’s side, and the lynx rubbed his head playfully against the Drow’s knee.

Drizzt reached down to scratch the big cat’s head between the tufted ears.

“’Tis the second time you have saved my life, friend cat,” he murmured in his own tongue. “How can I ever repay you the help you have provided since I fell into this world?”

His eyes closing in pleasure, Half-tooth gave no answer.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Drizzt got back to the place where the Nandor Elves were waiting for him, he saw in relief that the Elven archers, too, had arrived in the meantime, and the longships of the Lakemen were just about to set up on the bank of the River Running. The tall, heavy-set swordsmen and axemen used wooden planks to get ashore, as making their clothes wet would have been unpleasant in the chilly weather. Master Bowman Otir and young Leifdall came over to the Elves at once, to discuss battle plans with them.

“We must stop the Easterlings right there, at the _Goblin’s Den_ ,” said Drizzt. “The troops that had camped here are but a small part of their army, as we have learned from the Dwarves, yet they are strong in numbers and well-armed. What is even worse, I do believe they know that we are coming. They mentioned your name,” he added, looking at Egilstadir. “They are meant as a distraction, so that their main forces can reach Dale undisturbed.”

“Fortunately, the Dwarves of the Iron Hills are hot on the main army’s heels,” said Egilstadir.

“That may be,” replied Drizzt, “but if we do not beat these troops, they will go and fall into the Dwarves’ back. Or they will make a little detour to Esgaroth first.”

“Say no more!” interrupted Otir. “We shall not allow them to leave this place. You have seen their numbers, Dark Elf – if you have a battle plan, share it with us, now!”

Drizzt glanced at Egilstadir, who was, after all, the warlord of the Elven forces, and the Nandor prince nodded him to go on.

“We must use the night to place our troops well,” said Drizzt. “The Easterlings outnumber us, so we will have to use our archers first to lessen their numbers.”

“What numbers are we speaking about?” asked young Leifdall.

Drizzt shrugged. “I have counted thirty-eight small campfires outside the cave. You tell me how many warriors that would mean.”

Leifdall, familiar with the military organization of the Easterlings, made a quick calculation in his head.

“Forty troops,” he said. “Their jarl rested within the cave, I assume, and they must have had some Mordvin slaves with their pack animals. Thirty-eight fighting troops plus the jarl’s personal guard that can count any number of elite warriors from one dozen to three dozens, depending on his rank and importance. Add the slaves, and we can expect as many as a thousand men.”

“And we have barely four hundreds, all together,” added Otir grimly.

“Would the slaves fight us as well?” asked Drizzt.

Leifdall nodded. “If their jarl does not return from battle, his entire household will be slain to serve him in the afterlife. The slaves know that. They will fight for their lives – and the lives of their families – like furies.”

“So, if we slay these Easterlings, we also condemn their entire families to death,” said Egilstadir with a sigh.

Otir shrugged. “If we do _not_ slay them, we condemn _our_ town and families to death,” he replied, unperturbed. “’Tis them or us. We have not started this war… nor do we force them to slaughter each other back home when they lose it. If they choose to live that way, like some wild beasts, ‘tis their fault, not ours.”

“The knowledge of what will happen still troubles me, though,” said Egilstadir.

“Then set your troubles aside for after the battle,” answered Otir. “We are fighting for our lives here, too. We cannot afford to waver now.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The Easterlings awoke with the first light of dawn in the next morn, for Gotharr jarl wanted an early start. They still had a long way before them, and they had to count on a furious, though hopefully short, battle with the Lakemen somewhere along the way. Gotharr had no doubt that they would smite the troops of Esgaroth easily, but the reported presence of Elves made him wary. Those creatures were said to hit a bird’s eye from a hundred paces in the dark. ‘Twas fortunate that young Ásgeirr’s uncle had sent a word of warning, or else they might have walked straight into a trap, just to be slaughtered by bewitched Elven arrows. Everyone knew that the Wood-Elves used wicked magic – ‘twas better to be prepared for them.

Mayhap Siltric had been right, Gotharr thought. Mayhap the brother of his late wife, that weaselly merchant, would prove useful, after all. That might be worth keeping Esgaroth unharmed, after a thorough pillage. With their soldiers gone – such as they were in the first place – all that would remain would be the women and the wealth, and the Rhûnic warriors could use both. And the merchants, left alive, would serve them in the future.

Gotharr was certain that now that they had been properly warned, they would succeed in destroying the Lakemen’s troops. The Elven archers could be a serious threat, but they were still marching from Mirkwood towards Esgaroth, if Turcaill’s messenger had not been mistaken – which his messengers usually were not – and the numbers of their mounted knights were low. Gotharr intended to send his personal guard against them. Their heavy-boned mounts would run down the light Elven steeds in no time, and once out of the saddle, their excellent swordsmanship would be little help for the Elves.

About the Lakemen he had little to no concern. Their soldiers were good fighters, but his warriors were much better: stronger, more determined, more experienced. Still, a certain amount of wariness could never harm, and so Gotharr ordered Bergthorr, who was his chief guard as well as his half-brother, that their men should not begin their song of war ere they were in plain sight of the enemy. ‘Twas unusual for Khimmer warriors to hold their song before the charge, but Gotharr was a man of shrewd mind who valued the ultimate success more than the glory of the first attack.

Thus the well-ordered column of Khimmer warriors moved on with as little noise as possible – on foot, save the mounted guards of their jarl, and ordered in troops according to the weapons their wielded, to rank and skill. The scouts that had been sent out well before the troops returned with the news that not only had they spotted the longships of Esgaroth mooring on the bank of the River, but also found the camp of Elves: upon a low, long hill, behind a ring of thick bushes, so that only the tips of their silver-grey tents could be seen.

The lips of the jarl twitched and formed a thin, cruel smile. That sounded good. The _dakkars_ of the Lakemen were the best, fastest ships in the entire North. If they could capture them, they would gain great bounty.

“Split away from us with half the troops,” he said to Bergthorr. “Those ships should be unwatched for now. The Lakemen would not expect us to charge there. Seize the ships if you can; burn them, if you cannot. I want not a single one of those water-rats to escape.”

Bergthorr nodded in understanding and chose twelve troops of axemen, five of swordsmen, four of spearmen and one of archers to follow him. He left his mount behind, as the great beast would only be a hindrance in this particular charge. He ordered the men to take several lengths of rope with them that had iron hooks on one end, to get onto the ships more easily. The archers also carried special arrows, the tips of which were wrapped in tar-soaked rags. These arrows would serve to burn the ships, should they be unable to seize them. These were experienced men who had taken part in many a raid in the past. They knew what they had to do.

Following the description of the scouts, Bergthorr’s troops reached the River bank quickly. At the glorious sight of half a dozen sleek, snake-like little ships sitting on the bank, seemingly abandoned, the wild-hearted warriors of the East cried out their first cheer, at last, and they rolled on like a wave of destruction, the great song of war erupting from their breasts.

“Seize the ships!” bellowed Bergthorr. “Slay the watchmen, if you find any! Let them see who has the true power in the North!”

He was still shouting when a long, white-feathered arrow thudded into his chest, piercing his bronzed breastplate effortlessly and tearing through his thick leather vest underneath, burying itself in his battle-hungry heart. Bergthorr looked down at the vibrating shaft in shocked surprise. This was _not_ how things were supposed to happen… the cursed Elves should not even be here yet! He gave a weak sound of protest, then red mist settled over his eyes, and he swayed and fell with a loud _thud_. He never felt hitting the ground, though.

Tuilindo, Master Bowman of the Nandor Elves of Dor-Lelmin, lowered his great ashwood longbow in grim satisfaction. By silencing the leader of the Easterlings, he had given the signal for the others to strike, and the trap set for the invaders snapped closed. Slender Elven arrows rained like deadly insects upon the Khimmer warriors; even if not every single hit was lethal, each one caused pain and injury from afar, without the archers risking being wounded, so much greater was the reach of their bows.

“Burn the ships!” one of the older Rhûnic warriors bellowed. “The water-rats must not get back to them!”

The archers ignited their special bows, but ere they could have fired them at the wondrous little ships, the unerring Elven arrows took them out, one by one. Some of the others, closer to the river bank, tried to torch the ships, seeing the failure of the archers, but they found themselves facing the enraged, axe-wielding Lakemen, who took the threat against their beloved ships as personally as if someone had threatened their families. For a Lakeman, his ship was what his horse was for one of the Rohirrim – they would never let them fall into enemy hands.

The ensuing fight was beyond brutal. Trapped between the Elven archers and the axemen of Laketown, the Khimmer warriors went berserk, no longer caring about their own injuries. Drunk with bloodlust, they fought like wild beasts, driven by the single-minded intention to slaughter every last one of their enemies. But the Lakemen were fighting for their homes and the lives of their loved ones – and they were armed with Dwarf-made weapons and shields from Erebor, unparalleled by aught even the skilled smiths of the Deep Forges of Nimwarkinh could craft. What they lacked in numbers and fighting skills, they made up with despair. Not one of the Easterlings was to reach the ships… or escape the battle itself.

The Elven archers, now that their bows were rendered useless, lest they wanted to hit their allies by accident, put the bows aside and entered the hand-to-hand combat, wielding their long knives. There they were at a clear disadvantage against the swordsmen of Rhûn, at least where the reach of their weapons was considered. But they more than made up for that in speed and dexterity; and, like the Lakemen, they were determined not to let the enemy escape.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The other half of the Easterlings’ forces had reached the low hill with the circle of protective bushes within which the tents of the Elves were supposed to stand, unaware of what had befallen their comrades at the ships. In fact, out of sight of the mooring place, they even took up a cheer when the first screams of death sang out on the hills, thinking that Bergthorr’s people were slaying the unprepared watchmen aboard their ships. Gotharr finally allowed his warriors to burst into song, wanting to frighten and confuse their enemies… the Lakemen, at the very least, for he doubted that Elves would be so easily frightened.

But when he led his men around the hill to find an opening in the ring of bushes, Elven arrows began to rain down upon them, falling many doughty men in their first lines and on the rear. As if they had been truly bewitched, those white-feathered arrows seemed to seek out the archers and spearmen in particular – which made sense, assuming that someone had come to this battle well-prepared and with a clear battle plan.

Nonetheless, Gotharr managed to keep his troops under control. These warriors had been through many battles together – mostly against the troops of rivalling jarls, but also against pillaging Orcs who had made no difference between enemy and supposed ally in their frequent attacks of hunger, bloodlust and greed. These were seasoned fighters who knew no fear, save that of dishonour in battle. Even with the heavy losses of the first charge, they still vastly outnumbered the forces before them, and Gotharr was confident that he could get his men into position and overrun the Elven camp.

But then, with a great shout, the axemen of Esgaroth charged down the hillside – they had been hiding in the bushes ‘til the right moment – and pressed the Easterlings on their left flank, right into the swords of their comrades who came up from the enemy’s other side. Still unshaken, Gotharr rearranged his men to protect the main body of his troops against the new foe when the clattering of hooves could be heard, and the Elven knights in their grey armour rode up from behind and attacked his mounted guards. Releasing their last salvo of deadly arrows, Elven archers slid through the thick bushes like snakes, with long knives in their hands, ready to join the hand-to-hand fighting.

The Rhûnic warriors fought hard, as they always did, for they were a people who lived for the fight and for a glorious death in battle. Many axemen and swordsmen of Esgaroth, less experienced in combat, fell under their blows, and even the occasional fair Elf broke under the might of their axes, to be trampled to death on the blood-soaked earth. But the Lakemen knew they could not allow these barbarians to reach their homes, for that would have meant the end of all that they had and loved. And the Elves fought to keep Thranduil’s back free, for the Wood-Elves did not have the strength to fight a battle on two fronts. Thus the merciless struggle went on and blood ran freely on both sides.

Yet the Easterlings were trapped between two fires, and the usual fighting order was falling to pieces around Gotharr. The battle-hardened jarl tried his best to rally his men, but all order was breaking down, and to his horror, he realized that every single one of his warriors would be slain here if they did not find a way to escape and regroup somewhere safely.

Never in his life had Gotharr retreated in battle – in his eyes, that would be utter disgrace. Yet letting his men be slaughtered without the slightest hope for victory would have been equally dishonourable for a warlord of his rank. Thus he gathered as many warriors around him as he could, and they made a desperate rush, seeking a path between the Elven knights and the swordsmen of Esgaroth, who were the weakest link in the chain of their enemies.

So desperate was their charge, that – while most of his warriors were cut down in the process – some managed to break free of the ring and bolt away towards the River, where they hoped to join with Bergthorr’s men and gain some footing.

Gotharr himself got through the narrow break, slaying two terrified Lakemen as he passed. But when he was just about to breathe freely again, and to look around for a horse on which to escape, he found himself face to face with a demon.

It could be naught else. It had the pointed ears, slender build and coldly delicate features of the cursed Elves, yet its skin was black like that of the filthy Orcs… and it had lavender eyes. No creature in Middle-earth had lavender eyes, not even the weird and misshapen brood of Mordor that sometimes haunted the plains of Rhûn. 

It seemed to Gotharr that his time had run out indeed… and that Hel had sent her herald to announce his end. But he would show the Queen of the underworld how a true Khimmer warrior was supposed to die.

With both hands, he raised his broadsword above his head, and with a great shout, he attacked his opponent, trying to run it down with one wild charge.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt avoided the Easterling’s charge with the deadly elegance of a striking cobra and bore down his scimitars, whirling and jabbing, thrusting high and low at the same time, too quickly for Gotharr to deflect both. But the Khimmer jarl was surprisingly fast on his feet or a Man of his size, and while he was bleeding freely from several small wounds caused by Drizzt’s scimitars, he was still able to bring his heavy sword down with full force.

Thanks to his own dexterity, the Drow was able to deflect the sword’s path, but the effort numbed his arm for a moment – long enough for the Easterling to swing the weapon for a second blow. Drizzt ducked quickly, and the lack of impact tipped Gotharr off-balance, sending him stumbling right into one of the Drow’s blades, which buried itself into his barrel-like chest, barely a few inches below his heart.

The Easterling howled in pain but did not falter for a moment, launching a backhand swing in retaliation. To Drizzt’s luck, the blade of the heavy sword caught him flat in the lower chest, or it would have cut him in two – which might have been the jarl’s intention. Even so, the brutal hit cracked several of his ribs and swept him off his feet by the sheer force of it. Seeing the golden opportunity, Gotharr charged after him, meaning to finish him ere he would regain his footing…

… only to be engulfed in an impenetrable cloud of absolute darkness.

He faltered and stretched out both hands, trying to find a way out, if possible. Or was this how Hel brought the fallen warriors down to the underworld? Was he dead already? Nay, his wounds were not severe enough for that. It had to be some foul sorcery, then. The demon was trying to fool him.

Well, it was in for a surprise, in that case. Khimmer warriors could not be stopped by sorcery. With impending rage, Gotharr dove headfirst through the darkness and emerged triumphantly into the light again, ready to charge.

Drizzt was greatly surprised that in his moment of deadly peril he had been able to invoke the cloud of darkness. That was something he had not managed for a very long time. Mayhap he had bonded with this world so much already that the powers of the earth had come to his aid? That was certainly unexpected, but mightily welcome in his need.

Whatever the reason might have been, it gave him the crucial moments he needed to regain his strength. When the Easterling emerged from the darkness, his huge sword ready to strike, Drizzt was ready for him, too. With a whirl, he drove one of his blades deep into the Khimmer jarl’s side, and at the same time, he knifed Gotharr in the abdomen.

The Man’s sword fell from his rapidly numbing hand as he grabbed at the wound, trying helplessly to remove the blade but to no end. His legs gave way under him; the world spun around him, and he fell to the blood-stained earth and did not move anymore.

Those who had managed to break through with him gave a great outcry of distress and came running to his aid, not caring for their own safety – if he died, they would be slain anyway, for not having protected him better. Turning their backs on the pursuing Elven knights, his guards – one of them female, wearing a beautifully-crafted breastplate, and a helmet with the image of a small shield and two crossed arrows upon it – galloped to him as well. The female warrior, displaying a strength no-one would have expected from a young woman, hieved the wounded jarl before her onto her horse, and tearing the scimitars from his wounds, he threw them at Drizzt, seemingly carelessly, yet hitting him unerringly in the chest and in the shoulders. The other guards picked up a surviving warrior each, and rode away with them to the East, their great mounts bearing the double burden easily.

“Let them go,” ordered Egilstadir, keeping his knights from the pursuit. “There are less than a dozen of them, and they are fleeing homewards. There is no use to follow them – you are needed here more.”

And he called out for his healer to tend to the Drow’s injuries ere riding back to the fighting that was still raging on.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When the sun reached its zenith, the Battle at the _Goblin’s Den_ , as it would later be recorded in the annals of both Dale and Esgaroth, was over. Of the nearly one thousand Khimmer warriors, less than a dozen escaped with their wounded jarl. Some two dozen lightly wounded were captured, among them the dark-haired youth whom Drizzt supposed to be spymaster Turcaill’s sister-son. To the grievously wounded, for whom there was no hope of recovery, the Lakemen dealt a quick and merciful death – to their own as well as to the enemy.

From the Mordvin slaves in charge of the Easterlings’ pack horses only eight had been slain. The others, seeing that all was lost and their masters fallen, had laid down their weapons and accepted captivity.

“What are you doing with them?” asked Egilstadir from Master Bowman Otir.

“We shall bring them with us,” replied the Lakeman. “We have no slaves in Esgaroth, of course, but many good men have died because of their masters, and someone needs to do their work. The Town Council will decide about the years they will have to spend in indentured servitude, but life in our town is a lot better than what they can hope for back home. And after they have served their time, they can return to the East… or stay with us freely as they choose.”

The broad, tired faces of the slaves showed no hope, and their dark eyes, too, were dull and lifeless. Drizzt, whose wounds were tended to by Egilstadir’s healer, understood that these people had been living without hope for too long to believe that their faces could ever take a turn to the better. But Esgaroth had seemed a decent enough place to Drizzt, and mayhap a few years there would teach these poor wretches a different way of life… would teach them to hope again.

The Lakemen also gathered all weapons and what little armour the fallen Rhûnic warriors had carried and stored them away on one of their ships.

“’Tis for the families of our fallen people,” explained Leifdall. “Rhûnic bronze- and ironwork is much sought after in the North, and these will bring in a handsome weregild for the widows and orphaned children. ‘Tis only just that the Easterlings provide some reparation for all the misery they had brought upon us.”

Drizzt nodded. It made sense, even though Egilstadir seemed a bit uncomfortable with the practice. Apparently, the Elves of Middle-earth had very different ideas about what was considered decent and what was not.

Their fallen soldiers the Lakemen gathered and buried under a great mound of earth, leaving the bodies of their enemies to the carrion eaters. While this sad duty was being done, Egilstadir, Otir, Leifdall and Drizzt found the time to discuss the next steps that needed to be made. They might have won a battle – and a fairly minor one, all things considered – but the war was still raging on, and their people needed any help they could provide.

“My knights and I shall ride to King Thranduil’s aid at once,” said Egilstadir, “and our archers will follow us on foot. But we would be grateful if you could take the gravely wounded with you, back to Esgaroth. Elves heal quickly, so they may even be of assistance in a few days.”

Otir nodded. “We shall take them and the captives to town. Then we shall sail up the Lake with all that can still wield a sword or an axe, to Dale’s aid.”

“That seems a good plan,” replied Egilstadir. Then he looked at the Drow. “What about you, Drizzt Do’Urden? Where will your path lead you?”

“I have promised the Dwarves of Erebor to fight on their side,” said Drizzt. “I shall go with the ships. My wounds need to heal a little ere I can wield my blades again, and a long, hard ride would only make them worse.”

“As much as I hate to part company with you, I believe you are right,” agreed Egilstadir. “And it matters not _where_ we fight in this war anyway; only on which side. All our struggles aim to the same goal. May Ilúvatar protect us all!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halabor is an imaginary little fishing town that features in many of my stories. Camlet or camelot wool is also a fabric I have invented. There are two sorts of it, the cheaper one made of goat hair, and the more expensive one made of camel hair. They are supposed to be produced in Harad only.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 10**

Spymaster Turcaill had retreated into his home after the ships and the Elven knights left for the East, to face the Easterling troops at the _Goblin’s Den_. As he was also one of the wealthiest merchants of Esgaroth, the scion of a family that had dealt in Dorwinion Red, honey from he Beornings and fine wools, not to mention skins and spices for uncounted generations, his house stood on the Marketplace: the very centre of the town, near the Great Hall and the Master’s own home. ‘Twas one of the larger buildings, as suited such an important family, but narrowly built, like the others. It had two storeys above the warehouse on the ground floor, which also served as Turcaill’s shop and his counting room, as space was the most rare and valuable thing in Esgaroth.

His family – he was married to the Master’s own daughter, a strong-willed and boisterous woman names Eydis, with whom he had three children – lived on the first floor, while the servants of the family had to share tiny rooms on the second one. His two daughters, barely of marriageable age yet, also shared a bedchamber, while his son Thorodd had a small room of his own. The lad was on just this side of twenty, and while showing some decent talent for business, was still something of a disappointment for his father. He had not inherited any of his father’s or grandfather’s cunning. He might make a good merchant one day, but he would never be able to take active part in town politics and help his father’s plans forward.

For Turcaill had great plans for the future… plans that he had worked on ever since reaching adulthood. In truth, it had been his father, Thorodd the Older, who had first forged those plans, beginning at the very moment when the Dragon had been slain and Laketown destroyed. Plans that included the raising of a new Laketown; one that would be larger, stronger, wealthier than the old one. One that would push Esgaroth and its _Guild Merchant_ from the throne and wrest from them control over the whole trade in Rhovanion.

The townspeople had not wanted to rebuild Laketown on the same spot, although it was a much better one than Esgaroth’s original – and current – location. They were badly frightened by the Dragon, even in its death. They did not even dare to dive under the broken pillars of the town, to cut the gold scales and the gemstones from the dead beast’s rotting body.

What pitiful cowards they were!

But Turcaill was made of sterner stuff… and he was also fairly young. He had never seen the Dragon, never felt the terror of its coming, never known what it had been like to live under the constant threat of its presence. He had not known Laketown either, being born in the already re-built Esgaroth. But he did know that Laketown’s location had been a better one – for ships to set right into the strongest currents of the River, or to moor at its haven – and that a great wealth lay in the water under the town’s remnants.

An immense wealth waiting for someone brave and cunning enough to harvest it. And Turcaill had been harvesting it for the last twenty and six summers.

At first, he had done the diving himself, as a young lad driven by an adventurous spirit and an insatiable hunger for riches. He had been a good swimmer – all Lakemen were – and had no fear of the dead monster. It was _dead_ , after all. It could do no more harm. But he had learned soon enough that loosening the Dragon’s scales was not an easy task. It required strength as much as certain skills. So he had asked to be apprenticed to a goldsmith in Dale, and as he was a second son, his father had agreed.

In Dale, he had learned how to work with gold and silver and precious stones, and what they were worth and how to best purchase or sell them. He had been twenty-two when he became a master goldsmith in his own right, working long and hard on his masterpiece, but he never opened a workshop. He was a mediocre goldsmith – good enough to make repairs, but he lacked the true artistry that was required in his chosen trade, and with the skilled artisans of Dale and the Dwarven masters in Erebor as competition, he would never have made a living out of it.

Fortunately, he had never needed to do so. His brother, Thorvald – sickly and fragile from childhood on – had finally died from the lung sickness, and Turcaill thus become the heir of one of the oldest, wealthiest merchant houses in town. ‘Twas a turn of events that even his father had welcomed, as everyone knew that he was the better suited from the brothers to inherit the family business.

He had also worked as Esgaroth’s spymaster from the day on which he returned from Dale. As a travelling merchant, his father had already built excellent contacts everywhere, from Dorwinion to the Elvenking of Mirkwood (to whom they regularly sent barrels of butter and apples on rafts) and even as far down South as Rohan or Gondor. He traded in news as much as in wares, and soon enough he had become the most valued source of information, not for the Master of Esgaroth alone but also for the Beornings and the King of Dale. 

His family ties to the great Khimmer Jarl of Rhûn, Siltric Silkbeard, bought him, his ships and his caravans safe journey along the borders of Rhûn. In truth, alone of all merchants of Esgaroth, he even traded with certain Khimmer jarls, receiving his payment in bronze and iron. That was not as profitable as gold or silver, but it brought in decent winnings nonetheless – and those contacts secured his status on the other side.

Besides, gold and silver and precious stones he had aplenty. All those riches lay under the rotting wooden piles of Laketown; he only had to bring them up from the water. Oh, he no longer needed to dive himself. Siltric Silkbeard sometimes sent orphaned Mordvin slave lads to him as a personal favour. Of course, he could not keep his slaves in Esgaroth; people would not understand the usefulness of such servants. But there were still some empty buildings of Laketown in a reasonably good shape, and that was where he sent the lads, with carefully measured food and a few blankets and even some clothes, under the watchful eye of Prostr, one of his most trusted servants. The lads then did the diving with Prostr watching, from sunrise to sunset so that no-one would spot them, ’till their lungs gave out on them. 

Not that there would be any great danger of being spotted. People still feared that place very much, whispering that the Dragon’s evil still lingered over the charred remnants like a black pall, and that everyone who set foot in the old town would end badly.

The ridiculous fools! But their superstitions served Turcaill’s purposes all the better. Once a week, sometimes even twice or thrice, he would ride down to Laketown on a sturdy pony to collect the newly acquired riches. He could not trust the lads, not even faithful Prostr, with such wealth. Even a trusted servant could become weak at such sight. ‘Twas better to collect his treasure as often as possible… and to come at unexpected times. They could never know for certain when he might show up, and that was good so.

Nor had he told anyone about the treasure, or about its hiding place, not even his own wife. Eydis was a decent enough woman, but she would tell her father… or she would want to spend it, or at least some of it, for ridiculous, unnecessary things: for clothes, jewellery, furniture… that kind of nonsense. People would become suspicious, would start asking questions – questions that Turcaill was _not_ willing to answer.

Nay, ‘twas much better to keep his treasure secret and safe. Whenever he journeyed south, he would take a certain amount of it with him, to change it into gold coin or other valuable things that would not be so easily recognizable as parts of the Dragon’s hoard. Part of what he had acquired he left in different merchant towns in Gondor, so that he would be able to trade it later.

That was not entirely without risks, of course. Only ten years earlier, the destruction of the small town Halabor near Cair Andros at the Great River had caused him sensitive losses, especially in fine silks and _camlet_ wool that he had imported from Khand and Harad and intended to sell to the wealthy families in Dale and Esgaroth, or even to the Elvenking’s court, as he had stored them in the Warehouse of that town. But his losses were soon replaced with more treasure mined from the Dragon’s carcass, and by now he was considering moving some of it to the South again.

He was not particularly worried about he war. Esgaroth had weathered many wars during its long existence – and always survived. True, Laketown had been destroyed by the Dragon, but only because the Master of it had chosen to get involved with the Dwarves and their insane quest to re-take Erebor. At any other time, Esgaroth (and Laketown, while it lasted) had been simply ignored by the great powers. They were too small, too insignificant, their location not strategically important enough to count – _and_ they were needed for trade. _Everyone_ depended on trade, even the Dark Lord and his minions.

On his journeys to the South, in the great harbour cities of Umbar and Pelargir, Turcaill had met the powerful merchants of Khand and Harad. Unlike most people of the North, he knew that one could make a good living even under the yoke of Mordor. Unlike most people of the North, he knew that Mordor truly existed; that it was very powerful, and that its strength was growing with each passing year.

He also knew that there were two ways to deal with Mordor. One either put up a proud yet ultimately futile resistance and, in the end, died a hero and lost everything. Or one learned in time when to bend cleverly and how to survive under the iron boots of the Dark Lord.

The Dwarves, he knew, would fight ‘til the last broken axe-blade. They were fiercely proud, stubborn and stupid; their stiff necks could not bend. They had not learned from their terrible losses in their long war with the Goblins of Moria, nor from the bloodshed that had been the Battle of the Five Armies. On the contrary, the fact that they had managed to get rid of the Dragon – with the invaluable help of Bard the Bowman, mind you! – made them even more foolish and over-confident. They thought they could fight anything… and win.

Well, they would be taught to think again, together with those lofty-headed Men of Dale. Turcaill had a good inking of just how strong the main army of Siltric Silkbeard was, the one that had been sent on a shorter northern path directly to Dale, even though he had chosen not to tell the Elven prince about it. Siltric was the second most powerful jarl in Rhûn, his warrors numbered nearly as many as the troops of Ragnar the Smith himself. And they were all battle-hardened Khimmer warriors, hungry for riches, for women… for any kind of bounty they could lay their rough paws upon. The Bardlings would never know what hit them.

That said, Turcaill did not truly wish for Dale to be destroyed or for its people to be slaughtered or enslaved. He had spent good years in that town, had even made some friends there. His mother had come from Dale, her family having lived in Laketown as refugees since the first coming of the Dragon. So nay, Turcaill did not wish the other town any wrong – he simply put the interests of Esgaroth before those of Dale.

Or, to be more honest, his own interests. For if the Battle for Dale hit the troops of Rhûn hard enough, if the Dwarves and Bardlings decimated Siltric’s forces badly enough, that would mean that Siltric could become a lot more dependant on the trade from Esgaroth afterwars. He, Turcaill, would be able to negotiate a much better agreement with his sister’s husband in the future. Or, if Siltric would be weakened too much to keep his high status in the _Thing of Rhûn_ , Turcaill might turn to Ragnar the Smith directly, whose leadership could no longer be questioned after Siltric’s assumed fall.

In any case, he would come out of the whole affair as a winner. And the dream of a town of his very own, a new Laketown under his leadership, would come closer to reality. A great deal closer.

Oh, he did feel some regret for the archers and axe-fighters of Esgaroth who would be inevitably slain in battle – especially those who had sailed down the River Running, to fight alongside the troops of the Elven prince. Had it been up to him, all those people would have stayed safely in Esgaroth, waiting for the outcome of the battle, and then offering their help to the winner. Alas, the father of his wife had decided to play hero, at the costs of those poor wretches who were going to be slain and insisted on sending out their own soldiers against Siltric’s warriors. All Turcaill had been able to do was to speak words of warning – and had been ignored.

Well, then, ultimately, ‘twas the Master’s responsibility. And should their soldiers be massacred, as expected, people would blame the Master for the loss. Perhaps some of them would even remember that Turcaill had spoken up against that action. There were always possibilities for a man who played his dice well.

A soft knock on the wooden floor panel interrupted his thoughts. Instead of calling out, he stooped to open the trap door hidden under the display counter quietly. He knew who it would be – and he was not mistaken.

‘Twas one of his secret messengers: a small goblin of webbed hands and feet and of pale, bulbous eyes. Its kind had almost become extinct in the last few hundred years, but some of them still dwelt in the deep holes under the Long Lake and swam down the River Running at his bidding to carry messages. In exchange, he saw to it that their dwellings remained undisturbed by the fishermen, and allowed them to eat those slave lads that had grown too worn out to be of any use for the treasure mining.

The goblins came up to his warehouse through the trap door, that also served as some sort of miniature watergate in case the family would need to flee the town by boat. They did not speak Westron well, lisping and hissing and quaking in the process, but Turcaill, like his father and grandfather and their sires before them, had learned how to understand the wet creatures’ weird speech.

He waved the goblin to climb onto the floor and offered it some fish that he had always kept at hand, for exactly that purpose. But the creature seemed too frightened to even want to eat, and that was an unsettling thing. These… beings did not panic easily, as a rule.

“Dwarfsss!” this particular creature hissed, rolling its eyes nervously. “Big Dwarfsss… big weaponsss… shiny! Iron Hillsss Dwarfsss… many, many Dwarfsss… comesss to Mountain!”

And with that, it plunged back into the Lake headfirst through the trap door. Turcaill was more than concerned by the news; shocked, in fact. How could have the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, in their remote caves, learned about the marching Easterling army? Of course, their raven friends had their eyes and beaks everywhere, but the fact that they had been able to react so quickly was unexpected.

Turcaill considered his options very carefully. He could have tried to send out a messenger to warn Siltric Silkbeard about the Dwarven army coming up behind his back, but that would be a risky step. There were not many people whom he could trust unconditionally; in fact, Prostr was the only one, his brother in all but blood. But Prostr was needed in Laketown to keep an eye on the diver lads. He could not pull Prostr from that duty. The other servants were not half as trustworthy – or half as skilled. They would be caught and, in order to save their miserable hides, they would betray their master.

Nay, Turcaill decided, ‘twould be better to wait and see whom the winds of the battle would support. Siltric Silkbeard was a useful ally, but not the only one. And with Heledd dead already, Turcaill felt no great urge to protect her husband; not by endangering his own position, anyway.

Without Heledd to consider, Siltric was but a tool. A tool that could be replaced, once it did not prove useful any longer.

Decision made, spymaster Turcaill poured himself a cup of excellent Dorwinion Red and opened his book of accounts. Whatever the outcome of the battle might be, his business needed to be looked after.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Three days went by, and there were still no tidings, neither from the soldiers who had sailed down the River to battle, nor from Siltric Silkbeard – and Turcaill began to worry. The water goblins came each night to report him that so far, everything seemed to be quiet around Dale, but that did not surprise him. No matter how hard the Easterlings might have marched through the inhospitable plains of the Easter Wilderland, they could not have reached the Lake yet. But he knew that Siltric had mounted messengers – young boys on sturdy hill ponies who kept the tidings going to and fro between the troops – and was now wondering why there were no messages for him.

‘Twas highly unusual… and unsettling, to be honest. He did not mind breaking ties with the barbaric husband of his late sister, but he preferred to do so on his own terms; and only after he had found a new, hopefully even stronger patron among the great jarls of Rhûn. He could not afford to have his ships and caravans unprotected on the long journeys down to the South.

It also worried him that there was no word from the soldiers of Esgaroth. He hoped they had not been slain to the last man. Not that he would shed any tears for that old hound Otir, but young Leifdall showed genuine promise, and under the right influenc, he could prove very useful in the future. Either following his father’s example and becoming the next Harbour Master… or by stepping into Turcaill’s own boots. He would make a good spymaster, Turcaill decided, getting himself killed would be a real waste.

Besides, Turcaill did not want his town to remain utterly defenceles, should Siltric’s warriors forget how one properly treated one’s allies. Siltric would give the order to spare Esgaroth, but it would be up to the Lakemen to protect themselves and their property, should any of the drunken men of the East forget their orders.

That had been promised. There would be no retiliations for the one or other broken head. Such things went hand-in-hand with the pillaging. Which was the main reason why Turcaill had been against sending out their soldiers alongside the Elves to intercept the Easterlings – but he had been voted down.

He briefly considered bringing his family to Laketown under the veil of the following night, but decided not to do so, at least not yet. Not ere it became inevitable. People would notice their absence, and perchance come to the idea to do the same, Dragon curse or no Dragon curse – which would have been disastrous for him. Prostr and his lads would be discovered, and that would be the end not only of his flowering business but also his life as one of the town leaders.

He had been to Laketown on the second day after the ships had left and found everything in best order. Two of the seven lads currently working there were looking sickly, which meant that they had begun to develop the lung sickness that had taken all the others before them, but that was to be expected. They were the oldest ones of this bunch, with their thirteen and fifteen summers, and had been here for almost four years by now. In truth, Turcaill was surprised that they had lasted this long, but Easterlings were a tough lot, even the slaves.

They were also getting stubborn and belligerent, though, and thus Turcaill was secretly relieved to see their eyes burning feverishly. They had reached the age where, should they survive, they would begin to cause trouble. He would not get rid of them as long as they were strong and hale enough to keep mining the Dragon’s bones; that would have been a waste, and Turcaill hated waste. But soon they would be too weak to continue their work, and then… well, the water goblins would take care of them.

Turcaill had collected a handsome amount of jewels and gold scales on the previous day. His little _kingfishers_ , as he jokingly called his young slaves, had been busy, and the bounty had been rich. Now he was thinking about the problem of securing it. Due to the war and the increasingly dangerous roads before the fighting had broken out, he had not been able to bring any of his wealth to the South for quite some time, and all his usual hiding places were full.

He could not hide his treasure in Laketown, and he could not find any new, proper places within his house. Hanging his riches from the underside of the house in leather bags worked for the moment but was too risky. His children knew about the trap door to the water – he did not want them to find his treasure. They were his flesh and blood, true, but they lacked both the shrewdness and ambition what he would wish from his progeny.

Well, with _one_ exception. But Sydne was just a girl-child, and while the _Guild Merchant_ did accept women on their rolls (mostly those with a craft of their own, but occasionally also the one or other skilled female merchant), she would be hard-pressed to fill her father’s shoes. They would have to very carefully select the right husband for Sydne. Someone with enough wealth of his own, so that he would not be after her coin all the time; a good merchant or craftsman, who would have the common sense to leave business in Sydne’s capable hands.

‘Twas a true shame that young Leifdall was a wedded man already, and with strong and healthy twin sons, no less. But there was still Gudleif, his older brother. Not as bright as Leifdall, admittedly, yet a solid and reliable man… and recently widowed. He was a bit old for Sydne, almost twice her age, but that would count less and less as time would go by. And as his wife had died in childbirth, together with the babe, it meant that Sydne would not have to raise any children that were not her own… or have any competition for her children when it came to their inheritance.

Besides, becoming kin to the Harbour Master by marriage would be useful for Turcaill as well. Extending his influence over the harbour hid great possibilities – until the day when he would move out of Esgaroth to rebuild Laketown… and beyond.

There were other possibilities, of course; other promising young men – or not quite so young ones – who would be happy to wed one of Turcaill’s daughters. He would consider them as potential husbands for Arneidh, his older chick. But Sydne needed someone who would not hinder her in running her father’s business one day. Thorodd could be head of the house by name. Sydne would bring the shrewd mind necessary for further success. She was remarkably ruthless for such a young lass, she would not back off in horror when harsh choices would need to be taken.

And there _would_ be hard choices to make, whatever the outcome of the war might be. For a while, ‘twould be a merciless struggle to deal with the aftermath of the fighting – and even more so with the changes under Mordor’s rule, should the Dark Lord emerge victoriously, which was the most likely thing to happen. The wise man prepared for all possibilities and knew when to bend his neck into the yoke willingly… for a while. ‘Til he could slip out of it again, unnoticed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the fourth morn, Turcaill had just opened the shop on the ground level of his house, when the horns began to sound in the harbour’s watchtower, signalling the return of the ships. The people of Esgaroth left their homes in anxious expectation and gathered on the harbour side of the town, to see in which shape the _dakkars_ would arrive. A great many of them had kin on those ships – mostly the simple fishermen and craftsmen, but also some of the lesser merchants who could not feed their younger sons and thus had given them to the weapons masters to serve the town’s defence – and were worried to death about them.

At first sight, the ships did not look too bad. Some of them were a bit charred in a few places, but nothing too serious. They seemed well-manned, too, although not as full with armed soldiers as they had been when they had left; not by far. They had obviously suffered heavy losses, and the fear in the onlooker’s hearts grew.

Then the first ship berthed at the long wooden jetty, and young Leifdall jumped over its plank, landing on his feet like a cat, and engulfing his father, Harbour Master Thorleif – a big, straw-haired, barrel-chested hunk of a man like himself – in a bear hug.

“We beat them, Father,” he announced proudly. “We beat them and slew them, nigh a thousand of them. Only a handful of them could flee, with their tails between their legs, and their jarl is in death’s door. They will not be bothering us for a while.”

“How many of _our_ people were cut down?” asked Thorleif, and his son sobered quickly.

“Too many,” he answered with a sigh. “We raised them a burial mound at the _Goblin’s Den_ ; the proper rites will have to be celebrated later. Ask the wounded about the names; we must go on to Dale at once.”

“To Dale?” repeated Thorleif with a frown. “Why would you wish to go there?”

“For another Easterling army, much larger and stronger than the one we have fought, is on its way there,” answered Leifdall grimly. “The Dwarves have sent reinforcements from the Iron Hills, but they may arrive too late. On ships, we can get there in time, ere the town is besieged.”

“You wish to walk into the trap ere it snaps closed?” asked Turcaill, who, too, had come down to the harbour for news, incredulously. “That would be folly. The Bardlings have many good warriors. They will surely hold out ‘til the Dwarves arrive. Should any of the Easterlings make a detour, Esgaroth will be in need of our soldiers here.”

Some of the people gathered in the harbour murmured in agreement They did not want the other town any harm, but they were frightened and wished their soldiers – those who were still alive – to stay at home and protect them.

Leifdall glanced up at one of the balconies where his young wife, Ortrun, was standing, with their twin sons at her knees. She was a daughter of Dale, kin to King Bard from afar: a tall and vigorous woman barely beyond twenty-two summers, with a braid of glossy blue-black hair, thick as her arm, wrapped around her head and stray curls blowing about her temples in the morning breeze. Her eyes were so dark a blue, almost purple, that they appeared black under her long lashes, and her bearing was proud like that of a queen. She was considered a great beauty in both towns, and many envied Leifdall for his good fortune in winning her hand. For not only had she brought a handsome wealth into her marriage, she was also a skilled weaver and spinstress – and she had borne him strong and healthy sons: lusty little lads with straw-blond hair like their father’s, but with her deep blue eyes.

Leifdall’s face became soft with affection at the sight of his family, and after a long moment, he turned back to his comrades on the ships.

“I cannot and wish not to force anyone to follow me,” he called out to the men aboard, “but I have kin in that town, and I shall not abandon them. I shall go… anyone who is willing to come with me, can follow, as soon as we have offloaded the captives and the booty.”

“If no-one else has the honour and bravery to do so, I and my four sons will surely go with you!” bellowed Master Bowman Otir from another ship. “My kin shall never abandon a friend in need, and the Bardlings have been good friends to us, ever since their town was rebuilt.”

“I, too, will go with you,” the strange, dark Elf that looked like some sort of demon added. “I have fought and defeated _one_ Khimmer jarl in hand-to-hand combat; I feel like trying my skills against his overlord as well.”

Otir nodded in satisfaction. “Your face might be black, Dark Elf, but your heart is one of honour. Toghether, we shall raise our blades against the Easterlings one more time.”

Many voices on the other ships were raised in agreement, and in the end, it was decided that all the wounded would be left behind, with those too battle-weary to go right on into another fight. For them, a dozen archers would go on the ships to strengthen the numbers of those willing to go to Dale’s aid. More men they could not offer, for Esgaroth needed to stay prepared for a possible attack, but when a town was fighting for its survival, every single defender would count.

While the harbour workers restocked the ships with food and wine, the soldiers went briefly ashore – only long enough to embrace their families and eat a bit. Then they boarded their ships again, and twelve pairs of oars on each sleek little vessel were raised in unison to move them away from the jetty, ‘til the square sails could be turned into the south wind to drive them up the Long Lake, towards Dale.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Master Ketill had surveyed the offloading of captives and bounty personally, as was proper for the Master of the town. He appointed Olmodh, the bronzesmith, to the task of sorting out the pieces of Rhûnic bronzework – like breastplates, shields, bracelets, jewelled collars and the likes – that their soldiers had taken from the fallen Khimmer warriors, and the blacksmith Dufnall to take care of the swords, battle-axes, spear- and arrowheads that were made of iron, in Rhûnic fashion. 

Should they come out of this war unharmed – well, more or less – all this would be sold, and after the Town Council had taken its due share, the coin would be given to the families of the fallen soldiers. Rhûnic bronzework was much sought after among the Northmen who dwelt at the Greyflood, and the Waldmen of Mirkwood were always looking for good weapons to defend themselves against the Orcs and the Wargs and other foul beasts sent to the North from Dol Guldur. Mayhap even the Dwarves of Erebor would be interested in the odd piece; the Khimmer bronze- and ironsmiths were almost as good as their own.

As the Master of the town, ‘twas Ketill’s duty to take care of the families that had lost their fathers or sons in Esgaroth’s service. If there were no other sources, he was expected to do it on his own expense. That was why –aside from age, experience and wisdom, all of which he possessed in due amounts – wealth was an important factor when a new Master had to be elected. Fortunately for him, this time he did not need to reach into his own purse to fulfil that particular duty, and as much as he felt for the loss of the families, that fact filled him with satisfaction.

After the bounty had been safely stored, he turned his attention to the captives. The Mordvin slaves he sent to the families of the fallen at once. There would be a formal trial later, where their sentence would be spoken and the number of years they would have to serve determined, but the Master saw no reason why he should keep them holed up somewhere ‘til that day.

To begin with, due to the notorious lack of living space, Esgaroth had no prison at all. He could have kept them tied up in the Council Hall, but in that case he would have to appoint guard to watch them, and right now all battle-ready men were needed elsewhere. Besides, ‘twas much better if they earned their keep right away. The families of the fallen soldiers needed men for such daily tasks that were too difficult for women or mere youths to perform. And they were bitter and angry enough to watch their indentured servants like hawks.

Congratulating himself on this practical solution, the Master was now faced with the more difficult problem: what to do with the captured Khimmer warriors? To be honest, they were of little use in a town of decent, hard-working people. As a rule, Khimmer warriors never worked – that was what they kept the slaves for – aside from those who were also bronze- or ironsmiths. But the rare and respected craftsmen among them did not go with the pillaging hordes on raids. The raiders themselves were just blood-thirsty beasts that knew naught else but slaughter and violence.

Twenty-one of these beasts were now standing before the Master of Esgaroth, bereft of their weapons and barbaric jewellery – even of their clothes, save for rough woollen tunics and trousers. Nineteen of them were the usual bearded, stone-faced, heavily scarred warriors of various ages between thirty and sixty summers. One of them had only one eye and his grey hair bound in two tails beyond his ears. But the other two… they were barely more than youths. This had perchance been their very first battle – and most likely the last one they would ever fight.

Master Ketill eyed the taller one first. The youth was surprisingly tall for an Easterling, with yellow hair and observant blue eyes that carefully weighed everything about him and belied his age; for he was too young even to show any stubble on his tanned face. Yet his proud bearing and composure spoke of some experience – and that he was not just a simple warrior. He also must have had some Rohirric blood in his veins, for that size of his, but that was nothing unusual. Easterlings often abducted women from the Riddermark during their raids.

“Give me your name, young one!” demanded the Master.

The youth raised his head proudly. “I am named Geirrod, son of Gotharr,” he said. “My father had led our warriors in battle ‘til your black demon killed him with foul sorcery. For that, I shall kill the demon and tear out its black heart; and your town I will burn to the ground.” His voice was clear, though deepening to manhood already, and he spoke Westron well enough, albeit with a heavy accent. ‘Twas apparent that he had been taught more than just how to wield an axe… which was unusual for Rhûnic families, even important ones.

“Do not make threats you cannot make true, lad,” replied the Master placidly. Then he looked at the blacksmith. “What do you say, Dufnall? Will he do?”

The blacksmith gave the youth a thorough look-over. “He surely has the strength,” he judged. “If he shows any skills, I will accept him.”

Master Ketill turned back to the youth. “The only son of Dufnall Blacksmith has been slain by your father’s men,” he said. “For that, you owe him a life. We could simply drown you in the Lake and the debt would be paid, yet he seems to think you deserve a chance to pay it differently. Thus you will go with him and live in his house and labour in his smithy until he declares the debt paid. Should he find you unwilling or unfit, you will be sent to the harbour with the rest of your people, where you will work in chains for the rest of your life. Do you understand?”

The youth glanced at the blacksmith who was a huge bear of a man, bearded and heavy-set and with arms like tree-trunks, and nodded. “I understand.”

“Then I will have your vow that you will serve him faithfully ‘til you have paid off your debt; you will not try to flee Esgaroth or to harm him or his family in any way,” said the Master.

For a moment, the youth seemed to hesitate. An oath that solemn was binding for a Khimmer warrior; should he break it, his life would be forfeit in the eyes of his own people. Did he give his word, he would have to stay here and serve for uncounted years. But becoming a blacksmith was every bit as honourable among the Easterlings as being a warrior, and thus after some reluctance, the youth did swear the oath and left with the blacksmith to begin his new life in servitude.

“As for you,” said the Master to the others, “I will not ask for your word. You have harmed other people too much already to deserve a choice of your own. Thus you will be sent to the harbour, where you will serve one year for every soldier of ours that has been slain in battle. After that, we shall release you back to Rhûn. Take them,” he said to the Town Guards, “and have them chained. But remember how strong they are. The chains must be just as strong, and heavy, so that they would not be able to swim. Leave the other youth with me, though.”

His orders were carried out immediately. When he was left alone with the somewhat older lad, he knew he would have to handle this one with care. Geirrod was like a young colt: fiery, proud and angry, but honest. This one, thought, was a lot more dangerous. Slender and dark-haired and beardless, the youth somehow reminded him of a poisonous snake.

“I would know your name, young one,” said the Master.

That earned him a dark, unpleasant smile.

“You should ask your spymaster, old man,” replied the youth. “We are blood, after all.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Professor had used Norse languages to base that of the Lake-men on, so I gave Esgaroth a bit of a Viking touch. Since Dale is considered as a very different place (inhabited by very different people) I gave them Welsh names, complete with the Welsh version of ‘son of’ or ‘daughter of’. It doesn’t mean that they actually _are_ Welsh, of course.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 11**

Drizzt had travelled on ships before, during the adventurous years spent among the Men of Faerûn, yet the sleek little _drakkar_ s of the Lakemen were a wonder to him. He had been invited to sail with the _Grey Gull_ , young Leifdall’s own vessel (or, more likely, that of his father, even though he was the one currently commanding it), and was now investigating every little detail of it, amazed by the excellent craftsmanship with which it had been wrought.

Standing amidships in the well between the benches of the oarsmen, he could look forward along the lithe, long craft that had been shaped for speed, before all else. As he had estimated at first sight, it was about eighteen paces long and mayhap four paces wide. He counted ten strakes a side, six feet deep amidships. The single mast was lowered aft, and as the wind did not blow in their backs, the square sail was rolled up tightly, so that it would offer no resistance. Drizzt noted the clinched rivets that held the strakes together… this ship was made by a master, without any doubt. He hoped he would get the chance to visit the shipwrights of Esgaroth and watch them work – assuming, of course, that they survived the upcoming battle.

The boatmen paid him no attention at all. Each of them knew his duty and went afbout his business, ignoring the men-at-arms aboard, strangers and their own alike. Not one oarsman checked in the steady heave and stretch of his stroke, or turned to glance to note the movement at his bare shoulder, as the Dark Elf walked forward, up to the nose of the ship, where Leifdall was standing, watching the still surface of the Long Lake before them.

The Lake itself filled Drizzt’s heart with awe, even though he had seen huge bodies of water in his life. Maer Dualdon, Lac Dinneshere and Redwater, the great lakes of Icewind Dale, had not been exactly small, either. But the Long Lake reminded him of the sea itself, on a windstill day. It was so wide that the opposite shores looked small and far-away, and so long that its northern end, which pointed towards the mountain realm of Erebor, could barely be seen, even by his keen Elven eyes.

“Once upon a time, this was but a great, deep, rocky valley, or so the old legends say,” said Leifdall quietly. “But then the River Running, which the Elves call the Celebrant, changed its route and came down into the valley, in the place where Dale stands now. And with the Forest River that comes from Mirkwood, together they filled the valley with deep waters. Sometimes I wonder what might have been there in the valley before that.”

“But does the water have an outlet somewhere?” asked Drizzt.

Leifdall nodded. “At the southern end you saw with your own eyes on our way back how the waters pour out again, over high waterfalls and run away to the unknown lands of Rhûn. You should take a closer look, once the war is over. ‘Tis a truly overwhelming sight.”

“I can still hear the roar of the falls, distinctly and far-away, like music,” said Drizzt.

Leifdall nodded. “I have been to many lands, as far down to the South as the great coastal cities of Pelargir and Umbar,” he answered, “and seen many wonders of Middle-earth. Yet for me, this is still the most beautiful little corner of Arda. I would not wish to live anywhere else but here. And that is why we are going to defend it against anyone or anything that might try to take it from us.”

“I assume the Men of Dale share your feelings,” said Drizzt.

“They do,” Leifdall replied with a grave nod.

“Tell me more about Dale,” asked Drizzt.

Leifdall shrugged. “There is not much to tell. The town is as old as ours; no-one can remember a time in which it would not have been there, save from the years of the Dragon’s reign. The Men of Dale have always had good relations to the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, and before that, with those from the Grey Mountains, selling them foodstuffs and cloth in exchange for ironworks and jewellery. They are not as good at trading and sailing as we are, but their craftsmen and warriors are better.”

“Is it true that King Brand has descended from Bard the Bowman who had slain the Dragon with a single arrow?” asked Drizzt.

“He has,” said Leifdall. “But that was not just any arrow. The Black Arrow had been handed down from father to son for countless generations, ever since the destruction of the old town and the death of his last King, Girion, who was their forefather. It was always meant to be a tool of revenge on the Worm.”

“Still, it must have required a keen eye and a steady hand to find a vulnerable place on the Dragon’s natural armour,” said Drizzt, who had his own experiences with the malevolent kin of dragons.

“He had some help in that, ‘tis said,” replied Leifdall, “but he was an unusual Man in any case. He could predict floods and poisoned fish, and he understood the language of birds… of thrushes, at the very least. King Brand, his grandson, is a wise and good ruler, but he cannot compare himself with his ancestor. No other Man of Dale can.”

“They are a different race of Men than your people, are they not?” asked Drizzt.

“They are said to be an offshot of the people of Eriador, where once the North-kingdom of the Dúnedain lay,” answered Leifdall with a shrug. “If that is true, they must have sundered from the main stock a very long time ago, for they are much shorter, and they have dark eyes. Mayhap they mingled with the Mordvin people of Rhûn, far back in the distant past; I cannot tell. But they are the best craftsmen and warriors of the North – perchance due to all that Dwarven influence.”

“I am told that the Dwarves helped them to build their town anew,” said Drizzt.

Leifdall smiled. “Oh yea, that they did. Fortunately, the memories of the Wood-Elves are long and detailed. They could tell what the old town looked like – although the people of Dale did not want an exact copy of that which once was. Prince Legolas, the Elvenking’s son, says that Dale is much more beautiful now than it used to be, and if anyone, he ought to know. He was present when the Dragon came, after all.”

“He was?” said Drizzt in surprise. “That is strange. Where I come from, Wood-Elves do not like to be in stone cities.”

“Neither do those from Mirkwood,” Leifdall said, laughing, “but Prince Legolas is an adventurous soul. He has friends among the Beornings, too, and not many people can say _that_ about themselves.”

“Why not?” asked Drizzt. “Are they so unpleasant?”

“Before all else, they are a rustic, solitary people,” explained Leifdall, “who avoid even each other most of the time. They are also skin-changers by their very nature. They can take on the form of very great bears, and in that shape they are not only incredibly strong but also moody and dangerous. Even the Elves go out of their way to avoid chance meetings. Radagast, the Brown Wizard gets along with them well enough, but as he shares their love for the trees and wild beasts instead of people, ‘tis not surprising.”

“I met the wizard in King Thranduil’s court,” said Drizzt. “He is a wise one.”

Leifdall gave him a look full of doubt. “If you say so,” he said. “For my part, I find it strange when someone prefers trees to people, but you Elves mayhap see things differently. Now, if you look to the northwest, you can see the town of Dale in its full glory.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt followed the young Man’s outstretched arm and looked in the direction with great interest. When he had visited Erebor with Silinde, it had been too dark to get a good glimpse of the already sleeping town. Now he could see that it was, indeed, a place of great beauty.

It was larger than Esgaroth, but not by much, and as it did not seem to have multi-storeyed houses, perchance its inhabitants were not much higher in numbers than the Lakemen. It was protected by a stone wall that ran in a semi-circle around it, stretching from one side of the southern outthrust of the Lonely Mountain to the other. Behind the wall, terraces and towers were climbing up the slopes of the mountain, using the natural protection given by the rock. A huge gate, made of massive oak and strengthened by iron bars, was the only visible way in, although Drizzt did not doubt that the town had a watergate somewhere, too, so that the people could escape with boats to the Lake, when there was no other rescue in sight.

Leifdall called something in the peculiar tongue of the Lakemen, and the _drakkar_ s made an elegant turn, one after another, to moor on the shore of the Lake, near the gate of Dale. The guardsmen of the Gate came forth from their stocky, square stone watchtower to greet them, led by a sturdy young man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, grim-faced and observant. All guardsmen wore dark green gambesons and breeches, and over those knee-length mail shirts in Dwarven fashion with simple helmets, adorned with the heraldic emblem of Dale: a shield divided in three diagonal fields, two of them dark green, with a sea lion in silver in each, while the middle one was white with two black crowns, symbolizing the two kingdoms of Dale: the old one destroyed by the Dragon and the renewed one that was flourishing again. The same emblem was on the front of their mail shirts, made of silver and green enamel. They were armed with strong spears and round shields, also Dwarven-made, and had broadswords hanging from their sword-belts.

“Welcome and have our thanks for hurrying to our aid,” said the young Man leading them. “I am Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, the Captain of the Gate Guard. King Brand is waiting for you on the Marketplace to exchange tidings and discuss battle strategies. If it would please you to follow me, my men would help yours to offload whatever you may need from your ships.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned those very black, intense eyes of his to his men who showed great eagerness to obey at once. Then he turned on his heel to lead the visitors in. Only then did Drizzt realize that his left forearm ended but a few inches above where once his wrist must have been. A fine leather covering was pulled over the stump like a glove, secured by a thin silver bracelet. It seemed that life in the North of Middle-earth was not as safe as it might appear at first sight.

The young captain led them to the Marketplace, which was a paved square, surrounded by small, two-storey houses – by the look of them they belonged to various craftsmen, who lived on the second storey and had their workshops on the ground floor. Each house was painted a different colour, and they had wide shop windows on the front that, however, were shut right now, as the town was already preparing to face the enemy.

There was a Man-made (or, more likely Dwarf-made) pond in the middle of the square, with the stone figures of the mythical sea-lions –half-lion, half sea-serpent – rising from the water. The figures were spitting water in masterful arches, the rays of spray crossing each other gracefully and glittering in all colours of the rainbow when the sunlight fell upon them. The narrow lanes leading away from the Marketplace were paved with many-coloured stones, too, and the roofs of the houses were tiled with merry, colourful patterns as well. If anything, the Men of Dale seemed a merry people who liked pretty things.

On the northern side of the pond a tall belfry stood, and under its tiled roof were hung seven rows of bronze and silver bells, each row containing bigger ones than the one above it. As Drizzt, Leifdall, Otir and Tuilindo, Master Bowman of the Nandor Elves entered the Marketplace, a Man rose from a stone seat and played a short, merry tune on the bells, using stiff wires to manipulate the respective rows, to greet them. Then he sat down again.

“This is where the King welcomes his visitors or talks to his people,” explained Leifdall, who had been going in and out of Dale all his life, to the Drow. “The bells also serve to signal the passing of the hours. Being the Bell-Guard is a respected position that needs great skill and much attention.”

The ground floor of the belfry had been built to house a middle-sized room with only three walls, as it stood open to the pond. Within, heavy oak seats stood for the King and his Queen, and wooden benches for any possible visitors that might request an audience. Apparently, courtly life was a fairly public event in Dale, which Drizzt find unusual, but again, different countries had different customs.

King Brand was a burly, muscular man of perhaps sixty summers or even less, for his shoulder-length hair was barely salted with grey. He had sharply cut features and a very erect presence, his eyes dark and observant behind a commanding brow. A proud, ambitious man he seemed to be, and one quite certain of himself and his powers – and rightly so, if one saw the thriving of the town over which he ruled.

His Queen, clad in gold-embroidered dark green velvet like himself, had the same dark colouring, but seemed at least ten years younger, if not more, her braided and coiled hair, half-hidden under an elaborate hennin, not yet touched by age. She had great beauty for a daughter of Men, even though she could not compare herself with the ladies of the Elvenking’s court. Still, she radiated a strength that was rarely seen, even among ladies of royal birth.

Two young men flanked the royal seats: tall fellows for their people, in the elusive age between twenty and thirty, wearing gemstones about their sturdy throats and shiny hauberks of Dwarven made over their fine leather tunics. The younger one had the same dark colouring as the royal couple, but his brother – their likeness made it clear that they were brothers – was bright of countenance and fair of colouring, his eyes greyish-blue and his hair a light reddish brown. Mayhap he was born to the King from an earlier marriage – or out of wedlock. Drizzt made a mental note to ask the two Lakemen later.

To honour his allies, King Brand rose from his seat and inclined his head in greeting. He wore no crown or any other such royal symbol, just a silver collar studded with emeralds around his strong neck.

“Welcome to Dale, Master Otir, Master Elf, kinsman,” he said to the Lakemen and Tuilindo; then, turning to Drizzt, he added. “And I welcome you, too, stranger, who have come to our aid in the hours of great need. I am Brand ap Bain, King of this town. My Queen, the Lady Regath. My sons: Meilyr, the captain of my personal guard,” with that, he nodded towards the older of the two, “and Bard, he who will follow me on the throne one day.”

“May that day _not_ come for many years yet,” added Prince Bard with a smile. “I am certainly not ready to take over the sceptre, and shall not be for quite a time.”

“We cannot choose our time to go on the Great Journey,” his father said soberly, “so let us not speak of such things before we go to battle. Allow me to introduce the others first. My daughter, Branwen, and her newly-wed husband, Sir Geraint, one of the knights of my court. Sir Anarawd, the chief of my knights and his lady wife, Gwenliant. Master Dafydd, my weapons master. Master Aeddan, my steward. Lady Marared, the Queen’s chatelaine and wife to one of our lesser lords who holds a manor of his own, not far from the town. Master Ieuan, the captain of our archers. And, finally, Master Fychan, our spymaster.”

Princess Branwen had a definite likeness to Leifdall’s wife, Ortrun, only in a more refined way; she was, indeed, quite beautiful, and seemed to have a fiery temper. The two knights were clad in shining armour and wore the coat-of-arms of their town on their breasts, rather than any family emblems. The others wore gold-embroidered bliauts of dark greens and browns and seemed to prefer velvet, the women – with the exception of the Queen – wearing a simple white veil fastened with a golden or silver circlet rather than a hennin.

For such a small town inhabited by barely more than three thousand people, it was a very refined court, decided Drizzt. And King Brand seemed to know very well what was going on within – and without – his small realm. He called forth his spymaster, a balding, middle-aged man who turned out to be also the town’s head scribe and the author of a much-respected history of Dale, and asked him if they had word about the progress of the Easterlings.

Master Fychan glanced at Prince Meilyr, the one with the reddish brown hair, before answering.

“Prince Meilyr has received word from our scouts, with the help of the thrushes,” he said. “It seems the Easterlings will reach our town at sunrise – if they march through the night, that is.”

“They will,” said the King grimly. “They must know by now that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills are hot on their heels. They might be barbarians, but they are no fools.”

“When will the Dwarves arrive?” asked Master Otir.

“No sooner than in two days’ time, mayhap even later,” answered King Brand. “They are fast, but the way from the Iron Hills is a long one. We will be besieged well before their arrival. We must hold the town ‘til the Dwarves come to our aid – outside the walls we have no chance to withstand such a huge army.”

“Do we now aught about their numbers?” asked Otir.

The spymaster nodded. “Siltric Silkbeard must have emptied all his caves, for if our scouts are not mistaken, the Easterlings will outnumber us five to one, at least. And, unlike our own people, those are all battle-hardened warriors with nothing to lose.”

“Also, they seem to march with an uncommon speed,” added Prince Meilyr. “As if some secret power would drive them forth, strengthening them on their unwelcoming paths.”

Drizzt made a quick calculation in his head. Dale couldn’t have more battle-ready Men than a thousand and five hundred; and the Lakemen had sent no more soldiers than two hundred, aside from the Elven archers. If the Easterlings outnumbered them five to one, that meant almost ten thousand warriors from Rhûn. Even with the help of Dwarves, it would be a very hard and bloody battle. They needed an excellent battle plan to survive.

He glanced at the two Lakemen and saw that they had similar thoughts crossing their minds. Only the Elf Tuilindo seemed untouched by concern.

“Do you want us within the walls as well?” asked Leifdall the King.

Brand ap Bain nodded. “There is no other way,” he said. “King Dáin promised us help from Erebor, too – they will come down from the Mountain and attack the enemy from behind. But we must hold the town at any cost. If Dale falls, Laketown will follow. A victorious Easterling army would shake down the smaller settlements like walnuts, and with the Wood-Elves fighting Orcs in Southern Mirkwood, Erebor would not be able to prevail alone, either.”

“Very well,” said Master Otir. “We shall bring in our swordsmen and spearmen and axe-men. The archers, however, shall remain on the ships to thin out the rearguard of the enemy. Beyond that, we can only hope.”

“Hope and fight,” answered Prince Meilyr. “We have lost our town to the Dragon once, but we shall not lose it to mere Men. Never again.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the remaining hours ‘til nightfall, preparations for the upcoming siege were sped up. As he was showed around in town, Drizzt realized that the Men of Dale had learned from the bitter fate of their old realm and became more conscious about safety. When rebuilding their town, they had chosen to hide the greater part of it under the earth, carving large mansions into the very rock, with the help of Dwarves, leaving only the upper store above the surface. Waterways connected the underground mansions, on which one could travel by boat, and there were narrow paths cut into the sheer rock walls, on which one could walk. Those escape routes led up to the Mountain and down to the Lake, respectively, and their cleverly-built gates could only be opened into one direction – unless one came with a huge battle-ram, for which the narrow space would not suffice anyway.

And yet, in spite of being an underground fortress, the part of the town that lay below the surface did not lack beauty, with its cavernous rock chambers supported by enormous stone pillars, carved into the shape of tall, dark trees by skilled Dwarven hands. There were small waterfalls where small springs broke through the rock, and the mansions had open terraces that looked at the waterways or the falls, and there were glittering veins of copper and silver in the walls, giving them a lovely pattern. The whole place had a decidedly Dwarven touch to it, but the Men who lived there did not seem to mind, even though they dwelt in the upper levels in peacetime, above the surface, where they could enjoy the sunshine and the beauty of the Long Lake below their town.

At times of great peril, however, like the current ones, the underground part of the town would make it possible for the people to hold out long against a much stronger, more numerous enemy. And, by the look of things, that was exactly what they intended to do.

Master Aeddan, the King’s steward, was a short, wiry, elderly man, but one who seemed never to tire. He walked all over the town, carrying a bound volume of parchment under his arm and a pen behind his ear, examining storehouses and making notices about food resources, wine resources, weapons, barrels of oil and tar, and everything else that they might need or use during the siege.

“It looks promising, Sire,” he reported to the King. “We have eight thousand lambs, four hundred oxen, cows and calves that we can slaughter if needs must be, eleven thousand five hundred bushels of wheat, rye and flour altogether, and fifteen hundred bushels of barley and oats. Neither Man nor beast must suffer from the lack of food for a while.”

The King nodded in approval. “That enables us to feed our Dwarven allies, too. Very good, Master Aeddan. I did not know that we had such resources in town.”

The steward tilted his grey head to the side, bird-like. “We have known for years that this day would come, Sire. We have made precautions.”

“And wisely done,” said the King. “How much wine is there?”

“Two thousand casks,” replied Master Aeddan. “And six hundred barrels of beer, too, although I fear the Dwarves will find it cannot be compared with their ale. While ‘tis true that most of it was meant to be shipped to the merchants of Esgaroth, I find it comforting to know that we have enough, in case the Easterlings bottle us up here for a while.”

“Are there any pigs?” the King asked.

The steward studied his books again. “One hundred and fifty-two living,” he answered. “There are two hundred sides of bacon, too.”

“That should be enough,” said the King.

Master Aeddan nodded. “Master Dafydd has requested for oil and pitch barrels to be distributed to the strategic places on the outer wall,” he then added.

“Do what he asks,” said the King. “Master Dafydd had learned from the best among the Northmen. He knows what he is doing.”

“I hope he does,” replied the old man. “I would hate to see those unhewn barbarians pillage our town, and unlike them, we have not fought any great battles lately.”

“Worry not, Master Aeddan,” said Anarawd ap Cynan, who, aside from being the chief of the King’s knights, was also the father of Prince Bard’s bride, Melangell. “They shall not enter Dale – not ere each and every one of us is dead.”

“Your dead bodies would offer us little protection, Sir Anarawd,” said Fychan ap Huw dryly.

The chief of the knights gave him a broad grin. “We shall try to stay alive, then, Master Fychan, so that we can protect you better,” he said.

Listening to their conversation unobtrusively, Drizzt wondered just how many of them would manage _that_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morn, the sun did not shine. The sky was covered in dark clouds. The peak of the Lonely Mountain was wrapped in grey mist, and there was a heaviness in the air that bore down on people’s hearts most unpleasantly. Even Master Otir seemed to have lost some of his good humour, and looked out into the eastern vastness morosely.

“Does the weather not bother you?” he asked Drizzt who was standing upon the wall next to him.

The Drow shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “In truth, I prefer weather like this. Too bright sunshine still tends to blind me in the most unpassable moments. I am a creature of the Underdark, after all.”

“Well, I am not,” growled the Lakeman. “Nor am I a rat to get holed up in a trap like this.”

“You could have gone out to the ships with Leifdall,” reminded him Drizzt.

‘Twas the Lakeman now who shook his head. “They need people within the walls,” he said. “Leifdall had to leave, to protect the ships, for they are his responsibility. Me, though… I shall be of better use within. I only wish the Easterlings would finally come. This waiting will turn me mad yet.”

“Oh, they will come, worry not, Lakeman,” said a green-clad Man who had the heavy-set shoulder of an archer with a grim smile. They had met him in the King's court upon their arrival. “They will come sooner than we would wish.”

Drizzt gave him a thorough look. The man carried a longbow similar to those used by the Wood-Elves, and a full quiver. Catching the Drow’s measuring look, he bowed with some flourish.

“Ieuan ap Ifor, captain of the town’s archers, at your service,” he said in Dwarf-fashion. Apparently, living next to Dwarves for so long had rubbed off to the Men of Dale.

“Drizzt Do’Urden, at yours,” replied the Drow with a bow of his own. “You are certain, then, that they will come at sunrise?”

“We shall know for sure when the advance-guard comes within sight, but yea, I am fairly certain," replied Ieuan ap Ifor. “I only hope we shall be finished with preparations in time.”

For there was still a great deal of work going on within the walls. Carpenters were hammering flat the ends of three-foot stakes. Beside each of them, a young lad bored a hole in the flattened end and formed a cross out of it. A group of even younger boys bound oily tow dipped in pitch to the crosses. Drizzt assumed these devices would be set on fire and thrown onto the enemy. There was already a large heap of them there.

“A shame for the good firewood, it is,” commented Ieuan ap Ifor sadly. “We could have had better use for it in winter.”

On the left side of the Gate, where two low lines of houses divided by a square formed the barracks of the Gate Guard, there was a squeal of grinding and the banging of fitters. There the blacksmiths were working, under the watchful eye of Master Blacksmith Collen ap Collfrewr. Their job was to repair the weapons of those who brought them along – now and later, during the siege, as well.

Behind the barracks Padrig Flesher and his helpers were herding the cattle into their underground stalls. There the butcher would slaughter them beside the wall, so that the blood could be gathered in stone vessels. Apparently, the Men of Dale knew several recipes that required animal blood as ingredients, although it seemed unlikely that any such sausages would be made during an all-out battle.

When Master Otir mentioned this, Ieuan ap Ifor shrugged.

“We can pour it over the Easterlings’ heads instead,” he said. Master Otir seemed a bit sickened by the idea, but wisely chose not to comment on it.

They were about to turn into the Marketplace when the watchman on the Gate Tower gave a long, fierce blast on his horn. Ieuan ap Ifor squinted up at him angrily.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Here we are, can you not see?”

The watchman leaned out of the window. “The messengers are coming back, Captain Ieuan!” he said excitedly.

For days by then, a long line of guards had been set up, stretching as far as the few trained warhorses of Dale allowed, and kept watch day and night for the arrival of the Easterlings. While the thrushes kept bringing word to the King about the enemy’s approach, ‘twas important that experienced Men’s eyes also watched their progress and judged speed and track of them all the time.

Ieuan ap Ifor sent young errand boys to call the King, Weapons Master Dafydd and Tudur ap Bledri, the captain of the spearmen, to the Gate. They came running at once, followed by the princes Meilyr and Brand as well as the knights of the court. Soon, they were all standing upon the wall above the Gate and, shading their eyes, looked at the road which led from the distant plains along the eastern shore of the Long Lake straight to their town.

Along the road a sole rider was approaching at a sift gallop, carrying with him the dust that his horse kicked up. He wore the green and brown garb of the town archers but was bare-headed, as if he had lost the leather cap that usually belonged to the garb.

“Is that your brother?” asked the King from Ieuan ap Ifor.

The captain of the archers nodded. “Aye, Sire, that is Ithel… and in an awful hurry he is, it seems.”

As Ithel ap Ifor – the bow-maker of the town as Drizzt would learn later – arrived beneath the town wall, his face was seen to be covered in blood, and his horse had a lump on its flank the size of a pumpkin.

“He has been in a fight,” muttered the King.

“He seems to have done well enough,” replied Ieuan ap Ifor with brotherly pride.

Another three guards kicked up the dust in Ithel ap Ifor’s wake. There should have been twelve of them altogether, Drizzt knew. Mayhap the rest had been slain… meaning that the Easterlings were there in truth.

The messenger galloped up to the Gate and leapt from his horse. He halted, covered in blood, sweat and dust, before his King who was looking down at him from the wall. His left cheek was entirely black with congealed blood.

“Beg to report, Sire,” he said, touching a closed fist to his breast above his heart, “the Easterlings are here.”

“The whole army or only the advance-guard?” asked the King.

“The first of them, Sire,” replied Ithel ap Ifor. “We could not see much of the main army, they were too far behind, but they were making good speed… and there are many of them. I have never seen such a huge army before.”

“How did you get wounded?” his brother asked.

“They are on alert, too,” replied the messenger. “As soon as they got wind of us, they sent a sizeable group after us. Half of my mates stayed behind, so that the other half could escape and bring word, but a few of the barbarians came after us anyway and chased us quite a bit. We were able to slay them, but not without cost. Two of us were slain – and the rest is injured, too.”

“Why are your mates so far behind?”

“They are worse for the wear than I am, Sire, that is why I rode forward. But they will live.”

The King looked at his weapons master. “Someone bring those men within the walls ere the Easterlings arrive. And tell your people to speed up preparations.”

Dafydd ap Elisud nodded curtly and left to carry out his orders. He was a man of few words and many deeds. The King looked down at the messenger again.

“Is there aught else?” he asked, for he had the feeling the man had not yet told him the worse.

Ithel ap Ifor sighed. “Sire, there is. I cannot be certain, for I have not seen It, yet I believe that more than just the Easterlings are coming. I felt a… a _presence_. A very old and evil one. One that had visited our town not so long ago.”

The King paled but managed to keep his outward calm. “I understand,” he said. “Well, then, go to the healers and have your wound tended to. We shall need every man on these walls in the morn.”

The messenger bowed – and had to grab for his horse, as sudden dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. “By your orders, Sire.”

And leaning on the good beast for support, he walked through the Gate, while a team of spearmen rushed out to collect his injured mates.

Standing upon the wall, King Brand of Dale looked at his warriors in grim concern.

“Do you believe what I believe about this… _presence_?” he asked.

They nodded in unison, their faces every bit as grim as his. They had been with the King when the messenger of Dol Guldur came. They had all hoped never to feel that kind of dread again.

It seemed, though, that even that relief would be denied them in the upcoming battle.

“I thought the Nazgûl would go with the Orcs and Wargs to attack the Elven realms,” muttered Tudur ap Huw.

“There is more than one of them,” reminded him the King.

“But I was told they were called back to Mordor,” said Drizzt. “At least that was what the Wood-Elves believed.”

“Dol Guldur has never been empty,” answered the King. “At least one of the Nazgûl has always been there. The Wood-Elves believe him to be the lieutenant of the Dark Tower. They call him Khamúl the Easterling.”

“The _Easterling_?” repeated Drizzt. “Well, that makes sense, I assume.”

“Not truly,” said the King. “Not even the barbarians can bear the presence of a Nazgûl, as a rule.”

“Perchance the Nazgûl gave them no choice,” said Master Otir with a shrug.

“So, where does this leave us?” asked Sir Anarawd.

“The same place where we have been all the time,” answered the King. “We have to hold the town ‘til the Dwarves come to our aid… and hope they will come in time.”

“Even with their help, it will be much harder to resist when the evil will of the Nazgûl is driving the enemy forth,” said Tudur ap Huw in concern.

The King nodded. “True. But this is our home. It has been our home as long as memory goes back. We shall protect it. With our weapons, as long as we can. With our lives, if we have to.”

Drizzt wondered whether the King had had some insight into the future or it was simply bravery and despair speaking through him. In truth, that mattered little at the moment. They had a town to defend, and he was determined to help these good people to the best of his abilities. More so now that he realized he was about to face the Nazgûl in battle.

Those Wraiths had summoned him from his own plane of existence to help them massacre or enslave these people. He would show the monsters that no-one could use Drizzt Do’Urden to harm the innocent. Not anymore. He no longer was the confused youngster he had been in Melee-Magthere. He was a grown warrior now who knew his own strength – and after a very long time, he had a purpose again, one he had chosen himself.

Regardless of what awaited him in the upcoming battle, it was a good feeling. A very good feeling.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khamúl’s background is entirely my creation. Canon does not say anything about him, save his name, that he was called “The Easterling” and the fact that he was the lieutenant of Dol Guldur. 
> 
> Canonically, the forces of Dol Guldur attacked Thranduil’s realm as well as Lothlórien (the latter three times). It would be logical to assume that Khamúl, too, went with them. However, this is nowhere exactly stated. So I simply took some poetic licence here, assuming that only seven of the Nazgûl – including their captain – took part in the siege of Minas Tirith, while two of them remained in Dol Guldur to watch over the events in the North. In my interpretation, it was the other one, not Khamúl, who led the Orcs, Wargs and other foul creatures against the Elven realms, while Khamúl himself rejoined the people to which he had once belonged.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 12**

Riding his huge back steed in ominous silence, the Nazgûl once known as Khamúl the Easterling watched the waves upon waves of well-armed, battle-hungry Khimmer warriors roll before him towards Dale. He had chosen to ride with the rear-guard, for that way he could use the sheer terror his very presence caused to drive the army of Rhûn forward with a speed they would never have been capable of otherwise.

As a rule, Ringwraiths wasted little interest on the people they commanded in Sauron’s name. Men and Orcs, Trolls, Wargs or whatever other creature ended up under their iron-spiked boots, were but tools in their eyes. Tools that they could use or discard at will.

It had been that way throughout the whole Age. This time, however, Khamúl felt something vaguely akin to pride as he looked at the tirelessly moving sea of heavy-set, russet-haired warriors under his command. They were a proud people. A people of warriors who lived only for the fight and the booty that came as the prize of the fight. Their lives were ruled by their peculiar sense of honour – which made them all the easier to manipulate.

Khamúl knew them well enough. Better, in fact, than any other creature of Middle-earth. Once upon a time that was now long lost in the mists of history, he had been one of them. He had once been a powerful jarl of the Khimmer people, with ambitions similar to those of Ragnar the Smith and Siltric Silkbeard: he wanted to become King of Rhûn, to rule unquestioned on the plains of the eastern vastness.

He would have done anything to reach that goal. He had risen to power shortly after Sauron’s return from Númenor to Middle-earth. He was created second after the Witch-king, lured into the slavery of the Ring through his hunger for even more power and riches. Only he had not perceived it as slavery – not at first, in any case. While he had possessed the same barbaric shrewdness as most Khimmer jarls, thinking and plotting were _not_ his strongest suit.

Like Angmar himself, he was able to keep his human form for many hundred years, and for a while he truly believed the Ring had gifted immortality upon him. He was the one to lead the attacks of the Wainriders, first against Gondor more than thousand years ago, than against Rhovanion, ‘til he received a wound in the last battle in North-Ithilien against Eärnur’s forces; a wound that would have been deadly for mere Men. In his case, it only resulted in him becoming a Wraith – and finally he recognized the trap into which he had walked with his eyes only half-open.

While Sauron was sleeping, Khamúl was trying to take over the Mountains of Nimvarkinh, under which he would rule the same way the Witch-king had once ruled over Angmar. It would have been easy; he knew the people of Rhûn, after all. He knew what they feared and what they desired most. He had gone there, certain in his victory, but was confronted – and subsequently driven out – by two strange sorcerers in blue robes.

He had wanted to return there with even greater armies, but his captain forbade him to do so. ‘Twas not their hour yet, warned the Lord of the Nazgûl, and the sorcerers were more powerful than they looked in their modest mortal disguise. Without Sauron’s might to empower them, they would be chanceless against _one_ of those – and even less so when facing two at the same time.

Many hundred years had gone by since his defeat, but Khamúl was still Easterling enough, even in his current state, to have vengeful wrath burning in his insides when he remembered it. He had allied himself with his captain, hoping to make the most of the Dark Lord’s return. Sauron might believe they were his willing servants, but Sauron had never been a Man. He had never known the intricacies of mortality, of alliances and betrayals and unexpected loyalties and the ties of kinship that could keep a Man bound despite any other alliances.

Once the so-called free peoples of Middle-earth were defeated and put in their proper places, Khamúl and his captain would begin to build their own empires. The Witch-king would return to Angmar and raise an army of Drow Elves to defend it. Khamúl would take the Deep Forges under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh as the seat of his power and rule over great numbers of fierce Khimmer warriors. Let the others guard Minas Morgul, Dol Guldur and what other fortresses Sauron might raise in the future! The two of them would have their own realms – and strong ones at that.

True, they would remain the slaves of their Rings and bound to Sauron’s power. But they would be Kings over the other slaves – and, perchance, one day they might become even more. When all rebellious realms had been broken, there would be time for everything.

The first step towards that power would be the destruction of Dale – a task he had tried earlier and failed but would not fail this time. Khamúl could feel the victory within his grasp. He threw back his head under the black hood and released a long, triumphant cry that turned the hearts of the bravest Khimmer warriors to ice with the sheer terror of it.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Siltric Silkbeard, the powerful chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, was less than enthusiastic about the Nazgûl’s presence among his men. While the shadow creature’s presence helped to drive his army forth much faster than it would have been possible by their customary methods, it also spoiled their upcoming victory. Siltric did not like sharing a glorious battle with the Wraiths. They had no understanding for the pleasure of the fight, for the joy of the song before and that of the feast afterwards, for the respect and honour a successful raid – or even more so a battle won – meant for a Khimmer warlord. But one could not refuse a Nazgûl if it wanted to go to war with them, thus Siltric tried to make the best of it and put the terror the creature emanated to good use.

There was no joy in going to war with the Nazgûl behind them, no joy at all. They had not even been allowed to take the great tent with them, the one made of the skins of six hundred white kine; the one that served as the mead hall before all their battles. And in the advance-guard that rode right before Siltric and his bodyguards – six grown sons of his own, including his heir, and six of the bravest _valkyrie_ , shieldmaidens of the East – only the standards of lesser jarls from his own tribe were carried: red standards seamed with gold, depicting the black-horned white skull of a kine bull, with the runic symbol of the respective families on its brow in black. All other tribes had either allied themselves with Ragnar the Smith or been sent South to fight alongside the armies of Mordor against Gondor and Rohan.

Even so, the advance-guard of Siltric’s army was an impressive sight to behold. It consisted of his entire cavalry: small in numbers compared with the mass of foot soldiers but still more than twelve hundred mounted warriors, wearing bronzed breastplates and helmets, armed with broadswords and carrying heavy, round shields that could resist a thrown lance from twelve steps. These were the least vulnerable troops in the entire army, unless the enemy had archers that could hit their eyes from a great distance. The advance-guard was made up of the lesser jarls themselves and their hand-picked bodyguards: the finest warriors the Tribe of the White Kine could offer.

“We shall stay with them all the time,” said Siltric to his eldest son and heir. Sigurrd was his favourite, for he saw his younger self in the lad, even though Sigurrd was the son of a captured Northern woman, not born by his wife. Not that it mattered. The Khimmer cared more for strength and skill than for birth, and any lowly foot soldier could challenge the greatest jarl for his position if he felt up to it. Sons could only inherit their fathers’ rank if they were willing and able to defend it from any challengers. Siltric himself had fought many duels to the death to keep his position, and so had Ragnar the Smith or any of the other jarls, even the lesser ones.

Sigurrd, too, eyed the advance-guard with the savage delight of a born warrior. “Where they go, victory will follow,” he said in agreement. “We shall return home with rich booty.”

Siltric nodded. Sigurrd was the most capable one of all his sons: heavy-set and strong like the White Kine, with flaming reddish-gold hair and piercing blue eyes. He also had a keen wit and could judge people and situations very well. One day, he would be able to challenge the Tribe of the Bear for the leadership over all of Rhûn. Not right away, of course. Not as long as Ragnar the Smith was in his prime. Siltric knew that no Khimmer warrior could challenge Ragnar and live to tell the tale. Many had tried; none had come even close to success. The chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear was like the namesake of his people: strong, cunning and cruel.

Siltric himself had never been foolish enough to challenge him. Not even he would have been able to best the Smith, of that he was certain. But Ragnar was already on the zenith of his might. In a few years, he would be forced to hand down his power to his chosen heir. And Ingolf Ragnarsson, although big and strong and bear-like as well, could never compare himself to his father. As soon as he would rise to take over, challenges would be declared. And then, Sigurrd’s hour would come.

Siltric Silkbeard let his eyes sweep over the richly armed figures of his grown sons. They were skilled warriors on their own right, every single one of them, with wives and concubines in their halls and sons at their knees. All of them, save one. Ásgeirr, the only surviving son of his legally bound wife, was not worthy to be called a warrior. The young man was an excellent spy – which was why Siltric had sent him with Gotharr’s troops: to keep an eye on that dangerously ambitious ally – and mayhap he would make a shrewd trader, just like his uncle in Esgaroth, but he was no warrior at all. He was weak, he was unsteady, more interested in his own wealth than the honour of his tribe. He had not been able to win a wife and sire sons yet. In short, he was an embarrassment. Spies and traders did have their use, but they were not considered honourable. For a jarl – and the chieftain of one of the strongest tribes at that – to have such a son was a shame.

In recent years, Siltric had often asked himself whether it had been a wise decision to become allied to Turcaill of Esgaroth. True, it had brought him a handsome wealth over the years; coin that he could not have acquired otherwise. But he also had the vague feeling as if he had besmirched his honour as a Khimmer warrior by the mere contact with the merchant’s family. As if something sticky and vaguely disgusting would cling to his fingers, to his very being, through the mere presence of his wife in his bed. He had been relieved when the dry sickness finally swept her away, making room for new, younger, more worthy wives. It spared him the effort of having her killed.

He had not chosen a new wife yet. His female slaves served his needs well enough for the time being, and taking a wife always meant to make a new alliance with the wife’s family. He would wait ‘til the end of the war and see who would emerge from the chaos with more power and wealth. _Then_ he would select a new wife to strengthen his own position further.

About the outcome of this particular battle, the one they would fight shortly, he had no doubts or concerns whatsoever. He had enough warriors to outnumber the united forces of Dale and Esgaroth several times over. Even if the Dwarves of Erebor came to Dale’s help, it would matter but little. Khimmer warriors were almost equal matches for Dwarves, when it came to strength or weapons skills, and they had the _numbers_. And thinking of the Dragon’s hoard, still jealously guarded by the Dwarves, would prove a great inspiration for Siltric’s men. They would fight like berserkers, just to get to that treasure, even without the Nazgûl on their backs.

Dale would have to be conquered and destroyed, its houses torn down to the ground. About that, the orders of the Nazgûl were adamantly clear. But the fate of Esgaroth lay currently in Siltric’s hands, and the powerful jarl was still considering what to do with the merchant town. Keeping it intact could be advantageous: trade was needed. On the other hand, people like Turcaill were every bit as dangerous as allies as they were as enemies. For the Nazgûl, they were of no importance. But for Siltric himself, the right decision could mean a great deal for his future power.

“My Lord,” one of the shieldmaidens, whom the others called Amethyst, spoke up, “the scouts are returning. The advance-guard will soon be within sight of Dale. What are your orders?”

Siltric knew that he should ask the Nazgûl first, but he cared not. This was _his_ battle, _his_ army – he reserved the right of the decision for himself.

“Let them stop as soon as they can spot the town walls,” he ordered. “Allow the foot soldiers to catch up with the mounted warriors and take on formation. This town is well known of its stubborn resistance; we shall not be able to take it without a proper siege.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the evening before the enemy’s arrival, King Bard entertained his knights, the master craftsmen of his town and the captains of Esgaroth who had come to Dale’s aid. Guests at his table were also Tuilindo, Master Bowman of the Nandor Elves, the Dwarf Dori representing King Dáin Ironfoot and Drizzt Do’Urden, the Dark Elf. They were dining in the King’s own home, served by the Queen herself, her daughter and the brides of the two Princes, for all the house servants had been sent to the Marketplace. There long trestle tables had been set up, to serve a festive dinner for all those who would fight upon the walls of the town in the next morn – and might die in defence of them.

The meal in the King’s House began with a plate of cold beef seasoned with bread crumbs, red grape juice, onions, cheese, honey, cardamom and ginger, then continued with chicken in verjuice, rice baked in almond broth and honey cakes in rose petal sauce. The table was also richly equipped with preserved fruits and apples from the winter and small dishes with quince and almond paste.

At first, the air about the festive table was solemn; the very real danger of the next day weighed heavily on everyone’s mind. Even after the first course, when a barrel of true Dorwinion Red was opened and poured into the silver goblets, none of their hearts were lightened. ‘Twas Queen Regath who broke the silence, when the plates had been changed after the main course.

“’Tis enough of the gloom and the long faces,” she chided her royal husband gently. “’Tis time for a toast, King of Dale; for a toast to all these good and brave people who have come to our aid in this hour of need.”

The King glanced up to her and his grim face eased into a sad smile. “You are right, my Queen,” he said and rose, picking up the silver goblet before him. Then he looked at the people at his table, one by one.

“My friends,” he said, “thank you for coming. Thank you for bringing your swords, spears, bows… and your hearts to defend our town. I have a very strong feeling that together we will be able to hold back the waves of barbarians from pouring all over Rhovanion. Let this hope strengthen you, too. Let us hope that in this same place we shall celebrate our victory with another feast.”

“So be it!” called Sir Anarawd, raising his own goblet.

Everyone echoed his call and drank, and then Master Otir rose. He twirled his long moustaches and grinned from ear to ear.

“The Men of Dale trust the strong walls of their town,” he said. “The Lakemen trust their weapons and their ships. The King of Dale trusts our hearts, and rightly so. For I say you, friends, that together we will be able to hold the town ‘til the Dwarves of the Iron Hills arrive. For the Easterlings know not of the Dwarven army marching behind their backs; and between us, we will teach the barbarians a lesson they will not easily forget.”

The guests cheered and drank again, and then all eyes turned to the Dwarf Dori in expectation. The big BlacLock shook his head in distaste.

“We need more wine and less talking,” he declared. “Wine to steady our hearts… and enough sleep to welcome the enemy in full strength in the morn.”

The others laughed and drank some more to the delicious honey cakes, when in stepped a guard, halted in the doorway and bowed.

“Sire, the enemy has come within eyesight,” he reported.

King Brand shrugged. “’Tis only their advance-guard, I assume.”

“More than that, Sire,” replied the guard. “Their foot soldiers are flooding in by moonlight like the tide. Our scouts have spotted lots of tents and several fires.”

“They will be here at dawnbreak, then,” said the King, dismissing the guard with a nod but asking him to bring further reports, should there be any.

After the guard had left, he rose. That was the signal for all to disperse and rest as well as they could. ‘Twas clear to everyone that the first attack would come at dawn. With the Nazgûl driving them forward, perchance even earlier. The Wraiths preferred the darkness, in which they were the strongest.

Drizzt, who also preferred the night, exchanged a look of understanding with Tuilindo. After a moment, the Nandor Elf stepped up to the King of Dale.

“My Lord King,” he said with his deceivingly melodic voice, “are you giving the enemy the courtesy of welcoming them to Dale?”

“What do you mean, Master Elf?” asked the King.

Tuilindo pretended to be thinking. “I suggest selecting a proper greeting group of, say, two hundred Men and Elves and visiting their resting place briefly.”

“Just so that they would not feel neglected,” added Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, the Captain of the Gate Guard, clearly supportive of the idea.

The King looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “I have no objection. A charge like that may fill the hearts of our people with new courage.”

“That is what I was thinking,” said Tuilindo with a sly smile. “If the spirit is strong, the sword does its work better.”

“However,” added the King, looking at Cuhelyn ap Dafydd sternly, “I am not allowing you to go, Captain.”

“Sire!” the young man protested, but the King waved his protest off.

“Nay, Captain. You are too hot-headed, and I cannot risk losing you. You are needed on your post – the Gate will be the place most endangered during the siege. But Prince Meilyr may go – although not with two hundred men. You can take one hundred, my son, no more. That will be enough. Make a charge, harry them a little and return … unharmed and without casualties. We cannot afford to lose any people, is that understood?”

The young prince nodded. “Understood, Sire.” Then he looked around. “Who will come with me? Only mounted warriors count.”

He lacked not in volunteers, so he could choose as he wanted. From the knights of his father’s court, he chose Finion, the son of Sir Anarawd, and Cadwallon ap Grippiud and his brother Cadwaladr. He asked Tuilindo for a team of archers to give them cover during the retreat, then hurried down to the barracks, for the Gate Guard was basically the town’s cavalry and thus housed all the war-trained horses. Waking them with a bugle-call, he chose the best riders and swordsmen among them, ordering them to meet him at the Gate in as quarter mark, armed, mounted and ready. He also wanted them to bring a so-called mantrap. Drizzt had no idea what _that_ might be, but he knew one thing for certain: he wanted to go with them.

“My Lord Prince,” he said quietly, “you would do well to take me with you. My darkvision is better than anyone else’s in Middle-earth… and I have faced demons before.”

Prince Meilyr gave him a long, piercing look – then nodded. “Take a horse,” he said, “and cover your hair. Be on time, though, for we will not wait for you.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They were soon riding down the road on the eastern shore of the Long Lake, under a somewhat cloudy, moonlit sky. About fifty paces ahead of them rode Deiniol ap Dafydd, Captain Cuhelyn’s younger brother and a member of the Gate Guard, he who knew the hidden paths around the Lake better than anyone else. After half a mile, he turned off the road, leading them through the fields where the soft earth swallowed up the sound of the horse-hooves, making their ride noiseless like that of fleeting shadows. When they caught sight of the first watchfires, Deiniol ap Dafydd halted, allowing the others to catch up with him. The moon peeking out from among the clouds gave just enough light for their shapes to stand out like black shadows in the night.

Prince Meilyr rode over to Drizzt.

“We can take advantage of your darkvision now, Master Elf,” he said. “I would like you to go as far as the first watchfire. If there is a lonely guard, creep behind him and stab him. Then take a look at the fire. If there are no other guards beside it, throw this little oilskin on it to give us a signal. But be careful: it will spark a hellish flame, so you will have to get down that instant, least they will catch sight of you.”

Drizzt nodded; it sounded like an excellent plan. “What about my horse?” he asked.

“Leave it with us,” answered the prince. “We shall guard it for you ‘til your return.”

“And if there are guards at the fire?” asked Drizzt. He would be able to slay two or three undetected, but hardly more. Khimmer warriors, he had learned in the previous battle, were good and always on alert.

Nor was that what the prince wanted him to do, apparently.

“In that case, have a good, hard look around to see where and how they are lying and how many of them are there. Do not attack, just come back with word. That is what we need most.”

Drizzt nodded again, dismounted and merged with the darkness. With his keen Elven ears, he could hear the prince instructing his men for a while yet.

“As long as you see any Easterlings stirring, hit them and strike them,” explained Prince Meilyr. “Do not go any further than a hundred paces from the others, in case you take a tumble. When you hear the sound of the bugle for the second time, turn around and race homeward. Wait not for the others, unless you see someone in grave peril. We all meet again where we have left the road.”

“Are we to look for anyone or anything special?” Deiniol ap Dafydd asked.

The prince shook his head. “Nay; just keep your wits about you. These are battle-hardened warriors, born and bred to fight. Even if they take a fright from our unexpected attack, they will surely resist. They are taught to do so. If they do, keep striking where they are closest together ‘til they fall apart. You have the advantage of being on horseback – use it! Strike so swiftly that they would not have the time to strike back, or else they will slay your horse. The blow should fall like the hail.”

The Men nodded in understanding. The Elven archers, too, were impressed. For the inexperienced warlord of a small, usually peaceful realm, Prince Meilyr surely showed some decent talent for strategic thinking.

Said prince looked around as if seeking for something. “Where is the mantrap?” he asked.

“Here, my Prince,” replied a young voice, and one of the common soldiers rode forth, holding a long, fork-shaped instrument in his hand. He wore the uniform of the Gate Guard.

“Do you know how to use it?” asked the prince.

The young man nodded. “Captain Cuhelyn showed me.”

“Well, then, just grab the neck of one of them with it and bring him down,” ordered Meilyr. “Be careful, though, for Khimmer warriors are stronger than most Men. ‘Twould be better if we could capture one of their Mordvin slaves; such a one would be more likely to speak, too. But if we cannot choose, just grab the first man coming your way.”

“And when we have him?” asked the young man.

“Tie his hands behind his back and get off home as quickly as you can,” replied the prince. “Do not wait for us. Make him run beside your horse; that will not leave him enough breath to shout out or try to escape. If he tries anyway, hit him on the head, put him on the horse before you and ride off.”

In that moment, a sudden flare of a fire could be seen in the short distance that parted them from the Easterlings’ night camp.

“That is the sign,” said Prince Meilyr calmly. “Make yourselves ready. We are going to attack as soon as we have heard word from our scout.”

He was still speaking when Drizzt appeared out of the darkness like a ghost, tossing back his dark hood, so that the Men would recognize him by his thick mane of strong white hair.

“I stabbed the guard,” he reported. “He did not hear me coming; just fell over like a sack. The fire is burning in the middle of the tents. There are at least two dozen of them, and a great deal more further off. Seems like they are taking a rest ere they attack. There was only one Man sitting beside the fire. By his clothes, he must be a servant of some sort, as he was not armed. I hit him on the head to keep him from alerting the camp.”

“A Mordvin slave, most likely,” Prince Meilyr looked at the young guard with the mantrap. “Try to get him.” The young soldier nodded.

“The rest are lying on the grass in their hundreds, on skins and blankets,” continued Drizzt. “They are all together to the left of the fire.”

“Are they sleeping?” asked the prince.

The Drow nodded. “Like the dead. The hard march must have been too much, even for them, which is probably the reason why their lords are waiting with the attack at least a few hours.”

“Could you feel the… _presence_ Ithel ap Ifor was speaking of?” inquired the prince.

Drizzt shook his head. “Nay… and that was unexpected. Perchance it comes with the rearguard and is still some distance away. We must strike quickly, though. I have no wish to face _that_ one during the night. Not yet.”

“Neither do I,” murmured the prince; his haunted eyes told of some past horrors he was not ready to speak of. “Right then, men, keep well apart, at least ten paces. We will make a circle around them. When you hear my bugle sound once, fall on them like Wargs. Shout, scream and strike with all your might, as if there were a thousand of us, or more!”

Meanwhile Drizzt had mounted his horse again, and the hundred riders scattered towards the East. Sir Cadwallon ap Grippiud and his brother Cadwaladr were right on the wing, easily recognizable by their silver-washed armour and the three eagle’s feathers adorning their helmets. They led the long line of mounted warriors in a half-circle and adapted their speed to that of Prince Meilyr’s trot, as he was now in command.

The prince trotted gently along the line of the bushes for a while – then he suddenly broke into a swift gallop, Drizzt, and the Elven archers in tow. The Nandor Elves were every bit as good at shooting arrows from horseback as they were on foot, and they felled any awakening Easterling ere those could utter a sound.

The wild cry of the first Khimmer warrior not dying immediately from his arrow wound shrilled into the night, and hell broke loose in its wake. Now that the element of surprise was over, Prince Meilyr blew his bugle, and the hundred mounted warriors from Dale swept like whirlwind on to the exhausted Easterling troops, shooting at the tops of their voices and striking at everyone they could get near enough to.

But the Khimmer warriors had been well trained, and it showed. Within moments, the sea of tents came alive with creaks and cries. The shouts of friend and foe mingled into a single tempest of sound. The Easterlings sleeping on the ground started up, yet after the first moment of confusion they picked up their weapons to face the attackers. Some of them tried to push their way through the tents, in order to get where their horses were grazing.

“Forward! Forward!” called the clear, ringing voice of Prince Meilyr above all the noise. “Keep moving! Offer them as little target as possible!”

The camp of the Easterling advance-guard was shrouded in chaos. Shouts and curses filled the night. Shadows dodged, leapt and mingled. Swords glinted and swished, clubs thudded, horses clattered and snorted, tents creaked. Now and then, the slight _pang_ of an Elven bowstring could be heard, ere the noise swallowed it again. The ground thundered beneath the hooves of the galloping horses.

Drizzt felt a strange calm coming over him. His scimitars moved in a deadly dance, seemingly on their own, slashing right and left. He felt them pierce flesh every time, but it seemed to him as if someone else would move his trusted blades. The enemy fell before him, parting aside like the waters following a wizard’s spell, but his spirit was watching out for something else.

He was seeking the presence of the Nazgûl. He was best suited to feel the approach of the foul creature. He needed to stay on alert, to warn the others if necessary.

Around him, the fighting was raging on mercilessly. Some of the Khimmer warriors had reached their horses and slashed the hobbles with their swords, leaping on to them. Prince Meilyr saw it and knew they could not afford to let the Khimmer cavalry form a defensive line.

“Follow me!” he cried out, and his knights raced to him, assailing the riders, cutting and stabbing men and horses alike. The Easterlings put up a valiant resistance, but right there, right then, they were outnumbered. They fell in a wild rattle of swords and clash of spears.

And in that very moment, when some of them turned to escape on horseback, seeing that they had no chance, Drizzt could suddenly feel it: that unnatural emanation of darkness and malevolence he had already felt once, in the Front Gate of Erebor. The Nazgûl was closing up. They had to leave this place at once.

He slew the foot soldier that tried to break the front leg of his horse with an axe and rode up to Prince Meilyr in a great hurry.

“We must go!” he shouted over the battle noise. “ _Now_!”

The prince understood at once. He halted his horse and blew the bugle twice. Hearing the sound, his men galloped back to him from all directions through the tents.

“We have accomplished our task,” he said. “Now we must head home without delay. Wherever there is a fire in front of a tent, kick the fire on it, but do not tarry to gather any booty. This is not the time for that. On your way, quickly!”

The men obeyed without question, hearing the strain in his voice and understanding that an even greater peril was coming up against them. There was no pillaging the tents that night. The only thing they brought with them was a blood-red standard, seamed with gold, with the black-horned white skull of a kine adorning it. That and the Mordvin servant captured with the mantrap, whom the young guard had tied up and thrown across his horse before the saddle.

‘Twas well after midnight when they reached the Gate of Dale again. But when they thundered through the gateway, half the town was still awake, waiting for them and cheering them heartily. Drizzt only wished that the successful charge would give the defenders enough strength and willpower to face that which was waiting for them at dawn.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mordvin people originally living around the Sea Núrnen is my invention.  
> According to the Ardalambion website, _sôval_ means "common", and consequently _Sôval Phârë_ would be "Common Speech", although we cannot be absolutely certain which part means "common" and which means "speech". For the sake of this tale, I decided for _sôval_ to be “common”.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**PART 13**

As expected, the victorious return of the soldiers had put new heart into the defenders of Dale. Not only had all their warriors survived with naught worse than a few cuts and bruises, they also brought along an Easterling with them for questioning – a _tongue_ , as it was called in the North.

The captive turned out a Mordvin slave indeed: a rather short, heavy-boned, wiry young man mayhap in his early thirties, with a broad, sun-burned face, short-cropped brown hair that revealed his lowly status and dark, intelligent eyes that belied his unhewn looks. He wore threadbare homespun breeches of rough, undyed wool and a sleeveless jerkin of the same fabric. The chill of the early spring night seemed not to bother him at all, but under his jerkin angry, red welts of a recent flogging or beating could be seen among older, faded marks of similar origins.

He was brought before the King’s presence untied, and offered a drink of water and some bread, which he accepted after a moment of hesitation, but his eyes remained wary. Especially Drizzt did he watch with deep suspicion, as if expecting the Drow to attack and slay him in any moment. Mayhap he had mistaken the Dark Elf for some strange kind of Orc. Easterlings suffered almost as much from their so-called allies as all other people of Middle-earth.

The King looked at the prisoner with interest. Never before had one of those been brought before him, and he intended to find out about the man and his kind as much as possible.

“Do you understand the Common Speech?” he asked.

The prisoner nodded. “I do, great Lord. _Sôval_ is the mother tongue of our people, although our Khimmer masters speak a different language, which we also have to learn.” His voice was a little unsteady, but the way he spoke revealed that while he might be unlearned, he was by no means a fool.

“I see,” said the King. “What is your name?”

“I am called Bannâtha, great Lord, the son of Batta,” replied the prisoner in a respectful manner. “But my master thought a slave should not have such a fancy name and simply called me Ban.” There was an angry glint in his eyes when he said that. Drizzt could see now why his master had seen it necessary to punish him frequently. Barbarians did not like their slaves proud and belligerent, as a rule.

“Whom did you serve and what were the tasks assigned to you?” continued King Brand the questioning.

“I was the body servant of Revyak Jarl,” replied the prisoner. “I had to groom his horse, clean his weapons, serve him food… and take care of the bodies, should his foul temper get the better of him.”

“Did that happen frequently?” asked the King.

Bannâtha shrugged. “Often enough. He was born a berserk, they say, and his true nature can emerge outside the battlefield, too. Most people knew to get out of his way when he is on the rampage, though.”

“Like yourself?” asked the King.

The prisoner shrugged again. “He chose me for this campaign for I am strong and nimble as well as wise enough to watch my step around him. ‘Tis unbecoming of a Khimmer jarl to go to war without at least one servant to see after his needs. They would lose the respect of their peers if they had to take care of themselves.”

“He seems to have a rather… heavy hand,” commented Prince Meilyr.

The prisoner frowned. “Do you mean the whip marks, young Lord? ‘Tis nothing any other slave would not have. And he only broke my arm once, and a few ribs from time to time.” He unconsciously rubbed his forearms where the cord he had been tied up with had left deep furrows.

“’Tis still not right,” said Prince Meilyr angrily. “Men should not beat other men like cattle – or even worse, as I doubt they would willingly harm their beasts. I wonder why your people never rebelled.”

The prisoner gave him an almost pitying look. “Our people have known much worse, young Lord,” he said. “Once we lived in the depths of Mordor itself, labouring on the fields around the sad, dark waters of the Sea of Núrnen. Then, when the suffering became too much, half of our people made the desperate effort to escape the Black Lands. On their torturous way to the East along the Ash Mountains, they were found by a people you know as the Wainriders, who brought them to Rhûn and enslaved them again. Ever since then, we have been serving our Khimmer masters – and I do not believe that will ever change. Not for the people as a whole, although a few lucky ones sometimes manage to escape: those with no kin left, for our masters would punish their families most cruelly.”

“Do _you_ have kin left in Rhûn?” asked the King.

The prisoner shook his head. “I have none, great Lord. My parents are dead; broken early by too much, too hard work. I had a wife once, but my master took a liking to her and claimed her for himself; she did not survive his attentions. I used to have a younger brother, but Revyak Jarl sent him to the chieftain as payment for a lost debt two summers ago. No-one has seen him ever again.”

“If we see the end of this war, you may stay with us, then,” said the King. “Undoubtedly many will fall, and hard workers would be most welcome, I deem. But I would ask you to tell me everything you know about the strength of the Khimmer army, their plans, their resources. Around your former master you must have heard a great deal, for I think not he would care much about your listening.”

The prisoner nodded. “Indeed not, great Lord. Our masters always talk freely in our presence, as if we were dogs or mindless objects. I shall tell you everything I heard – although I know not of how much use it is.”

“Whatever you can tell us will be to our benefit,” said the King. “Tell me about the numbers of the army first.”

“’Tis a huge one, great lord,” said Bannâtha. “Siltric Jarl called the entire Tribe of the White Kine to arm. They mustered as many as twenty thousand armed warriors when they left their halls, all blooded in battle. Most of them are low-born Khimmer men with small lands that can barely feed their families, no matter how much our people labour for them. Foot-soldiers they are: axe-men and spear-men, but a good number of them wear broadswords, too, and are good with those.”

“How many mounted troops?” asked Dafydd ap Elisud, the weapons master.

“Fifteen hundred, or not much fewer; I cannot tell for certain,” replied the prisoner. “Mostly the lesser jarls themselves, their bodyguards, and, of course, the _valkyrie_.”

“The _what_?” asked Drizzt quietly of Master Otir who was standing nearby. That was one word he had not heard before.

“Shieldmaidens,” explained the Lakeman. “Female warriors of great skill, devoted to their warlords. They are, perhaps, the most dangerous fighters in the whole Easterling army.”

“That they are without doubt,” agreed the prisoner. “When they enter the sacred band of the _valkyrie_ , they lay down their names, sever ties with any family they might have and live only for the fight thereafter. They are wedded to their swords, and if they cannot fight any more, their ‘sisters’ deal them a merciful death. They will never yield and never leave a battlefield as long as the warlord is alive. Do not look at them as women: they are furies who know no mercy and expect none.”

“How many of these are with the army?” asked Prince Meilyr in concern.

“About three dozen altogether,” answered the prisoner. “Their numbers have always been low, for they only accept the best, and even of those some do not survive their harsh training. You have been fortunate, young Lord, that none of them were with the advance-guard, or many of your men would not have returned.”

“Where have they been, then?”

“Some of them guard Siltric Jarl himself. Some came with the rear-guard, for they are the least affected by the Nazgûl’s presence; they know no fear. Some were sent with the troops of Gotharr Jarl to attack any forces Laketown might send out against them. Last time my master had word about Gotharr’s troops they were taking rest on a place called the _Goblin’s Den_. I know not where that is.”

“Oh, but we do,” said Master Otir with a feral grin. “’Tis a nice, friendly place, where they can rest for a long time. A _very_ long time indeed.”

The eyes of the prisoner showed understanding. “You have already fought against Gotharr Jarl’s troops? And you defeated them?”

“That we have,” replied Master Otir gleefully. “Less than a dozen escaped with their lives. A few we captured, but most of them are dead.”

“What about their slaves?” asked Bannâtha. “Two dozen of my people were sent with Gotharr’s troops as grooms, and to serve the lord’s needs.”

“A few of them put up some futile resistance,” said Otir with regret, “so we had no other choice than cut them down. The rest was taken to Esgaroth to work in the homes where the family head or a grown son had fallen in battle. Does this bother you?” he asked.

The prisoner shrugged. “Why should it? They would fare much worse if they were to return home. At least when they are believed dead, their kin might be spared.”

“Tell me about the jarls,” said the King. “What kind of men are they?”

“Obsessed with hunger for fame, victory and wealth, like every other Khimmer warrior,” answered the prisoner. “They believe all Middle-earth is their hunting ground by birthright, and that they would be able to conquer all people in Rhovanion. Siltric Jarl is the chief rival of Ragnar the Smith, chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear, and hopes to take Ragnar’s halls under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh as his own one day. For that, he will have to return from this campaign victorious. He will not rest as long as the walls of Dale are still standing – and he is good at besieging small towns, they say. His son and heir, Sigurrd, is the same – just even hungrier to make a name for himself.”

“The presence of the Nazgûl must come in handy, then,” said Prince Meilyr darkly.

Bannâtha shook his head. “’Tis not so, young Lord. Only a victory gained by his own strength and cunning makes for a warrior an honourable name. Using foul sorcery, like the help of a Nazgûl to send its terror against the enemy, is considered shameful. The jarls were very rebellious when it came to ride with the army, but they dared not to say anything. There are horrible tales about what happens to those who raise their voices against the Wraiths. But they are as unhappy with its presence as everyone else.”

“I cannot say I blame them,” murmured Prince Meilyr. “What about food? Does the army have enough?”

“They have brought a lot of dried meat on pack horses,” answered the prisoner, “and a great deal of twice-baked bread that does not go wrong for weeks. But the rations are small. ‘Tis not easy to feed such a large army in the Wilderland, less so if they cannot halt to hunt. Yet Khimmer warriors are tough and can go on little food for quite a while.” He glanced at Master Otir whom he apparently recognized as a Lakeman. “Esgaroth would do well to guard its flocks and farmlands.”

“We do,” replied the Lakeman simply.

The King and his spymaster asked a few more questions, but it was obvious that the prisoner could tell little else. He was sent to the infirmary to assist the healers – and to be under as much surveillance as possible during a siege – and everybody returned to their assigned posts.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That night, the defenders of Dale slept at their assigned posts, fully clothed, with their weapons at hand, so that they would be able to reach for them at the first sign of an attack. Drizzt did not sleep at all. He could go on for days without sleep as Men understand it. The complex mediations Drow Elves indulged in to rest their spirit allowed him to remain fully alert on the outside and keep watch over those who did not possess this useful ability. ‘Twas not so different from the waking dreams of other Elves, as Tuilindo pointed out.

Dawn had still not broken when the Easterling began pouring into the valley like a dark flood to engulf it as a whole. They were approaching with the beating of bronze drums, the braying of horns made of the foot-long horn of white kine and the swelling of a great, harsh song, sung by many thousand rough Khimmer voices. Here and there the gold-seamed blood-red standards could be seen in the torchlight, the bone-white skull of the kine seeming to grit its teeth threateningly. And beyond the black sea of enemy soldiers the dreadful presence of the Nazgûl was looming, still at some distance, but there, like death itself looking for its prey.

The slaves had raised the tents of their masters again, this time well within eyesight but still out of reach of the archers of Dale. The tents were simple, octagonal constructions; unadorned and white, every single one of them, made of the tough hides of white kine. The standards of the lesser jarls, rammed into the earth in front of their tents, were the only sign by which one could sort out the whereabouts of the leaders. A half-circle of small watchfires had been kindled for the archers to light their flaming arrows by.

“They have prepared for a siege,” realized Drizzt. “They knew there was no way to take the town with a single charge.”

Young Prince Bard, who was standing near him on the wall, nodded. “Of course. ‘Tis not the first time they have tried to take our town. And they have spies, too. We are fortunate that they had no time to have siege engines brought here. Our walls are not made to withstand those. Dale is a town, not a fortress.”

“I assume you have no catapults of your own, either, then,” said the Drow.

Prince Bard shook his head. “There has never been need for them,” he said. “We have always been able to defend ourselves well enough… save the time when the Dragon came upon us. And what use would have been war machines against him? Or against _that_ out there?” He nodded in the vague direction they guessed the Nazgûl to be.

Drizzt sighed. “True enough. I still wish we had some means to destroy many attackers at the same time. Their numbers are frighteningly high, and they are strong, even without that demon in their backs.”

The young prince shrugged. “It is as it is. We shall face them with what we have and hope it will be enough.”

As if answering his words, the war-drums of the Easterlings picked up speed, just as the first grey band of dawn appeared on the horizon above the hills. A deadly rain of fiery arrows began to pour down on the town, fired by mounted archers who galloped just close enough to send them in a great arch over the wall, then retreated in a great hurry. There were other riders, too, who threw earthenware pots over the wall with pikes. When such pots hit the ground, they burst, and liquid fire poured out of them, engulfing everything within reach in living flame.

Fortunately, Dale had been rebuilt by Men and Dwarves who had taken the horrible memory of dragonfire into consideration. Every building above the ground had been made of solid stone. The only things that could catch fire were the beams holding the tiled roofs, but those would be easy to replace afterwards. Also, there were stone cisterns in each street, into which large amounts of water had been pumped up from the Lake well in advance. After the first salvo of arrows and fireballs, youngsters and young women hurried forth with buckets to put up the fires. Men whose clothes caught fire were wrapped into wet animal hides. ‘Twas something they had done hundreds of times in preparation. The people of Dale, peaceful folk as they were, liked to be prepared for the worst.

Ieuan ap Ifor’s archers were standing upon the walls in readiness, protected by the palisade. They had heaps of long arrows at hand, with oily rags wrapped around the arrowheads, and torches by which to light them. But the King had still not given the order to shoot back. He was standing in the Gate Tower himself, watching the movements of the enemy with grim interest.

“Sire,” said Ieuan ap Ifor, getting a bit enraged by the growing confidence of their foes, “let us fire in the middle of them! We could scatter them in a moment.”

“Not yet,” replied the King calmly. “Let them play.”

“Let us at least make a raid on them!” begged Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, whose Gate Guards were eager to encounter the enemy.

The King shook his head. “’Twould be too early. You shall see the reason later on.”

Master Otir looked at him with a frown. “Would you mind enlightening me, at least, my Lord King? For from what I can see, you are letting them break your town without resistance.”

“And you would be mistaken,” answered the King. “The fire-arrows are of no concern for us. They are put out easily, and just as easily can they be replaced. But those earthenware fireballs are wicked things. I want the enemy to become careless; to waste them on uncertain targets.”

“Would that matter?” asked Master Otir. “Surely they have brought thousands of them.”

“I believe not,” said the King. “They have not brought carts with them, and pack horses can only carry a limited number of those things. Also, throwing them over the walls requires a certain skill I assume not every Khimmer warrior possesses. When they get reckless and come closer, our archers will shoot at them – not any sooner.”

“My Elves could hit them from this distance, too,” said Tuilindo.

“I know, Master Elf,” replied the King, “but I want to keep them unaware of your presence yet. It could be to our advantage later.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the enemy camp, Siltric Silkbeard was watching the unresponsive town with suspicion. So far, his fire-arrows and fireballs had been wasted. They had not even sparked a reaction out of the defenders - not even as much as an arrow-shot. He was certain that the Men of Dale were up to something. He just could not guess _what_ it was.

“We need to get the fireballs deeper into the town,” demanded one of the older jarls, a fierce-looking, bald man with only one eye. “They are not doing nearly enough damage, it seems.”

“If the _werfers_ get any closer, they will be easily shot,” reminded him Siltric.

“So what?” asked Revyak Jarl with an impatient shrug. “They are but slaves. Who cares if they live or die?”

“ _I do_ , for they are the only ones taught how to throw the fireballs properly,” replied Siltric. “Or are any your warriors volunteering?” He knew they were not. Khimmer warriors would consider a task like that beneath their dignity.

Yet he, too, knew that there was no other way than the one the older man had suggested. Thus he ordered the _werfers_ to get closer to the town walls and try to throw their fireballs deeper in. The _werfers_ were frightened by that order, but they feared their masters even more, so they rode up closer to the walls, swinging their pikes, on the end of which the fireballs had been hung, to throw them over the walls. Behind them, a long chain of archers rode up, flaming arrows already put on their bowstrings, their bearded faces glistening with nervous perspiration.

At that moment, the Elven archers rose from behind the palisade like ghosts, their wondrous longbows, with which they could hit a bird’s eye in the dark from a hundred paces, ready. At a barely audible sign from Tuilindo, the Elven bowstrings sang in unison and hit their targets unerringly. The Elves had aimed at the Khimmer archers, above the heads of the _werfers_ , and the bowmen dropped from their horses, dead, without a sound. Then the Elves stepped back, making room for the archers of Dale, who began shooting at the _werfers_ rapidly. They proved to be excellent shots, almost as good as the Elves, and many of the _werfers_ were hit and fell from their horses, the fireballs exploding as they hit the ground, in a great burst of flame. The clothes of the dead men caught fire, as well as the dried grass from the previous year still covering the earth. The few surviving _werfers_ fled back to their troops in blind panic.

Revyak Jarl was mad with anger. He rode forth with a nine-tailed flogger, beating at the fleeing _werfers_ with all his might, breaking bones and tearing long, bloody welts across their unprotected backs.

“You cowardly dogs!” he roared. “How do you _dare_ to run away? Your miserable lives are of no consequence! The only thing that counts is victory!”

Siltric was forced to intervene ere the other jarl could beat the poor wretches to death. Not that he would care, but the _werfers_ were still needed.

“Revyak, hold your hand!” he shouted. “If you kill them now, they will have no chance to teach others their skills. We may need those fireballs yet; you can deal with the failure of these after we have taken Dale.”

Reluctantly, the foul-tempered jarl lowered his whip. “What do you intend to do now?” he demanded.

“We launch an attack,” replied Siltric with a shrug. “I wanted to break the town some more first, but we _are_ able to get on the walls as we are. Send word to the others. Bring out the siege-ladders and the large shields against the arrows. We are going in.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Day began to dawn over Dale as the Easterlings’ first attempt to set fire to the town was beaten back. The pale grey band that divided the black sky from the hills towards the East grew broader, and the darkness of the night was now but a transparent veil. One needed no keen Elven eyes to see the movements down there, below the town walls.

‘Twas like a moving sea of bronze and steel, interrupted only by the thin shapes of long ladders pointing to the sky as they made their way unsteadily towards the town, accompanied by the constant drumming and horn-calls. The greyness was replaced by a pale rose-colour, and the cold darkness dispersed to reveal the gleaming surface of the Long Lake, shrouded in morning mist, and the village of white tents on the shore.

King Brand, standing high up in the Gate Tower, turned to the bugleman. “Sound the reveille, son!” he ordered. “It seems they have chosen to launch an all-out attack.”

The young man obeyed. Eight bugles responded immediately from various posts on the town wall. Within moments, the rattling of weapons could be heard, and men’s voices arose on all sides. The swordsmen and spearmen lined up on the walls, between the troops of archers.

“As soon as they storm the walls, hurl down the fire-arrows!” Ieuan ap Ifor ordered his men.

And Dafydd ap Eliud had the pitch-dipped crosses with the straw wreaths brought out, so that they could be set on fire with torches and hurled down at the attackers, too. A young page brought out the King’s horse, so that he could get from one spot of the town to another quickly, wherever his subjects might need encouragement.

King Brand donned his armor with the aid of his page: first the breastplate with the enamelled coat-of-arms of Dale on it, then his arm-guards and gauntlets, the page kneeling to strap on the King’s greaves. The King mounted his horse, and the page handed up a gilded helmet that had a long, gently moving feather of a heron on it, fastened with a silver bird’s claw.

Finally, the page offered the King his hereditary sword. ‘Twas a long, lightly bent blade of marvellous workmanship, razor-sharp and damasked with serpent-forms in red and gold. Its black sheath, too, was wrought of some strange metal, light and strong, and set with precious stones in green, white and blue, the colours of Dale. Drizzt looked at it with great interest, for the weapon seemed both very old and very noble of origins.

“’Tis an old family heirloom that was returned from the Dragon’s hoard by our Dwarven friends,” explained the King, seeing Drizzt’s interest. “’Twas a gift from Agrahael, the last King of Cardolan, to one of my ancestors, ere the Witch-king of Angmar overran his kingdom near two thousand years ago. According to legends, this is the only weapon that can kill a Nazgûl, though I know not whether this is true.”

“Why are you telling me these things, my Lord King?” asked Drizzt.

The King looked at him intently. “I know not whether I will be able to face the Wraith, in the end,” he said. “But I do know that my sons cannot do it. Not yet… mayhap never. But you… you are a strange one, Master Elf. You are not from Middle-earth, thus perchance the limitations we have to bear do not hinder you to do that which has to be done. I would have your word that should I fall, you will take the sword of my forefathers to the Nazgûl’s throat.”

After a moment of hesitation Drizzt nodded. ‘Twas only proper, after all. The Nazgûl had summoned him to be their slave. Now he would become their bane… if the King’s sword truly held the power ascribed to it. And if he would find the strength in his own heart and sword-arm to bring the Nazgûl down, perchance he would be allowed to live out the rest of his life here, in Middle-earth. He had a great longing to remain there.

“I shall do my best,” he promised, as much to himself as to the King.

“Then I will go to battle with my heart in peace,” said King Brand.

By then, it was light enough to see the Easterling troops clearly down below. Under the walls to the East there was a sea of iron and bronze helmets, just outside of the arrows’ reach. They had not moved yet, though – and for a moment, they fell silent, watching for the signal to launch the attack. After all that noise and drumming and singing before, the silence seemed ominous… threatening even.

They had not long to wait. As soon as there was enough light to see the ramparts, the great war song rose from a hundred places in the Easterling army anew. The jarls and the bravest, strongest, most honoured warriors started it, and the others picked it up at once, and it swell on again like a destructive storm, ready and able to wipe out everything in its way. And on the waves of their mighty song, the huge barbarian army leapt to the attack.

Mounted archers rode forth, raining arrows down on the palisades that protected the defenders. Some arrows were burning, trying to set fire on the house roofs behind the walls, and soon enough, curling smoke could be seen rising above the roofs. The stench of burnt flesh and cloth fouled the air, and with the thunder of hooves came the clamour of drums, bugles and horns and the unwavering war-song of battle-hungry Khimmer warriors. A forest of siege-ladders floated towards the walls and modest watchtowers, and behind them another hail of arrows whistled in a high curve upwards.

The defenders were not behind with their answer. Aiming downwards, Elven and Mannish archers rained down flaming arrows where the Easterlings were massed most closely. Dozens were covered in blood, wavered and fell. Yet at the same moment hundreds pressed forward over the fallen. The stench of blood and death filled the air, overlaying everything else.

The iron hooks of the siege-ladders crashed into the stone of the walls, and Khimmer warriors climbed up them almost at a run, drunk with the joy of the fight. They held their great, round shields over their heads and had broadswords, short spears or heavy battle-axes in the other hand. A dozen or so gold-seamed, blood-red banners wove and fluttered, the White Kine leading the army of its children up the ladders.

“ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” The ceaseless war cry of the Khimmer warriors swell on, calling to the legendary White Kine, from which they claimed their descent and now expected victory.

“To the walls!” thundered the voice of Weapons Master Dafydd ap Eliud from above. The stocky, muscular Man stood at one of the watchtowers, his feet firmly planted on the wall, clad in steel from his helmet to his boots and wielding a battle-axe almost as large as himself.

His call echoed forth, and the walls filled with defenders. Only now did they begin to hurl down the burning crosses at the attackers. The rough woollen garb of the low-born Khimmer warriors caught fire easily, adding to the already nauseating smell of death and dying. Axes, hatchets and cleavers clanged on the grappling-irons of the ladders, tearing them away from the walls and throwing them back into the sea of enemies pressing forth. Some ladders had twenty men on them when they fell.

“ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” There was no fear in the war cries of the dying Khimmer warriors. To be slain in battle was the most honourable end they could wish for.

The ladders crashed down on each other, smashing the men below to their death. Yet a moment later their places were taken by a new wave of armed fighters, and a new swarm of ladders rose beside those that had fallen.

“ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” howled the Khimmer warriors. “Victory is at our hands!”

Drizzt was fighting at the Gate Tower, where the tempestuous attack raged more fiercely than anywhere else on the walls. Left and right from him the defenders beat off the climbing Easterlings with hundreds of flaming arrows, shooting at them from the flank. Yet these were no mercenaries to hold their lives in higher regard than the glorious victory of their tribe. And they knew it was enough for a dozen of them to force their way in. Pressing on behind them, the whole army would be able to surge in like a giant flood.

Yet the defenders knew this, too, and put up desperate resistance. They had been beating back wave after wave of attackers for an hour by now, but it seemed that there was no stopping the flood. New ladders and new attackers stormed the walls after each charge that had been fended off. No matter how many of them had fallen under the arrows and by fire, there were always ladders in place – and men on the ladders. As soon as the first long ladder was fixed firmly to the wall, smaller ones were passed from hand to hand to ease the men’s way upwards.

Drizzt wondered briefly how they had managed to get those long, clumsy things there all the way from Rhûn, and with the speed they had made. Perchance this campaign had been planned for a longer time than anyone might have thought. Perchance the ladders had been made well in advance and and lay waiting in hidden places for the army to pick them up. If that was so, many of the things he had learned about the Easterlings so far must have been grossly understated. And considering that the knowledge had come from Spymaster Turcaill of Esgaroth, that could make one wonder about the Man’s true intentions.

“Watch out!” shouted someone behind Drizzt’s back, starting him out of his reverie, just in time to face a widely-built Khimmer warrior in a brass armour who was just about to gut him with a short, broad-pointed spear.

Only his lightning-quick reflexes saved the Drow, for the Easterling was aiming low enough to pierce him right under edge of his Dwarf-made breastplate. With mental thanks to his late father who had honed those reflexes to perfection, Drizzt ducked out of the spear’s way and with a quick move of the wrist, he slashed his attacker’s unprotected throat. With both hands grabbing the gaping wound on his neck, the Khimmer warrior dropped spear and shield and fell backwards, smashing another Man to a bloody pulp with his heavy body.

But what are two deaths among thousands?

Already another warrior jumped into the place of the brass-armoured Man: a barely bearded youngster with an axe, eager to make a name for himself. His bare arms were thick with corded muscle, and there was no doubt that he could wield his axe masterfully. He was also young and limber, which made him twice as dangerous, and he knew it, too, for he stepped onto the wall with youthful over-confidence – to stare right into the black visage of the Drow.

The purple eyes glaring at him from that demonic face only halted his hand for a heartbeat; he must have been taught well. But that heartbeat was enough for the Drow to make a quick swipe with one of his scimitars. The young warrior wore no breastplate, just a thick leather jerkin; it was no hindrance for Drizzt’s blade. Blood swill into his mouth from a pierced lung; he swayed and dropped from the wall.

Drizzt looked after him for a moment and shook his head in regret. He knew this youngster would have shown the defenders no mercy; and yet it felt like killing a child to him. A murderous, blood-thirsty child, true, but still a child.

There was no time for regret, though. The Easterlings kept storming the walls, and his blades were needed. He shook off his momentary sadness and turned to the next one climbing the wall.

Below the attackers yelled. “ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ”

“Take that!” bawled Master Otir, further down at another small watchtower, and with a fearful blow of his great axe, he split the head of an iron-helmeted Khimmer soldier like a ripe melon.

Bows were no longer of use on the walls, thus he wielded no other weapon but the axe. He had left his fellow Lakemen back near the watchtower to fight with spears and came over to a part of the wall where it seemed easier to hook ladders. Indeed, there was a line of them there. The Easterlings swarmed up them like ferrets. One or two ladders had been smashed, but Master Otir grew impatient with the method.

“Aim at their head, lads, nought else!” he yelled, standing high above the wall, naked to the waist save for a leather vest, bare-headed. The blade of his axe was as long as a cudgel. His face was bathed in sweat but brimming with life. He brought down the axe with a loud clang onto the iron helmet of the next Easterling, so that the swordsman fell head first from the ladder…

…only to be replaced by a large, bearded man who had been beneath him. That one carried not a sword but a mace on a chain and panted like the bellows of a blacksmith. Otir grinned down at him.

“Was hard to get up that long ladder, was it not?” he asked. “Let me help you get down again!”

The bearded Easterling swung the mace. Otir snatched his head away from the bow that could have felled an ox and struck him so hard with his axe that the skull of the man broke like an eggshell. His great body rolled down the ladder, swiping the living out of its way.

But the mace, while it had missed Otir’s head, slammed into his right shoulder, splintering the bones in the joint with a sickening _crunch_. A few iron spikes broke off the head of the mace and perforated the wound deeply. The big Lakeman wavered and nearly fell off the wall. His entire arm was covered with blood.

“Father!” a voice, almost as deep as his own, shouted in anguish. His son, Gunnar ran up to him and dragged him away from the wall, looking around wildly for help.

“Leave him to me, young master,” said a heavy-set woman soothingly. “I will take him to the healers.”

Gunnar Otirsson nodded his thanks, gave his wounded father a brief glance – then jumped onto the wall to take his father’s place. Right on time to face an Easterling in a shirt of mail trying to enter the town. Someone had thrown a spear at the man, but it slid down from the mail-shirt harmlessly.

“Wait!” shouted Gunnar, holding back those who wanted to throw other spears. “This is the way to do it!”

Picking up his father’s fallen axe, Gunnar aimed at the man’s neck. The blood spurted out onto the wall as the Easterling turned on his side and dropped below.

The sun had broken through now, as far as could be seen through the billowing smoke of flaming arrows, fireballs and burning roofs. But from time to time, as the breeze blew away the smoke, there was a glimpse of the enemy with their gold-seamed standards and steel shields swarming below. And there seemed to be no end to the waves of destruction washing the town walls.

King Brand galloped on horseback from one danger-spot to another. First he ordered some scattered archers to regroup, then he saw that the wounded were taken away. He had new supplies of spears and pikes and arrows delivered where weapons were scarce. He encouraged, praised, reproved and cursed. He kept his pages busy with orders to the reserves in the barracks, to call fresh troops to relieve those who had been fighting since daybreak. When the need arose, he grabbed a bow himself and sent his arrows on their ways with deadly accuracy. There could be no doubt that he was, in truth, the great-grandson of Bard the Bowman.

Drizzt refused to be relieved at the time. He was not tired yet, and the Gate Tower was one of the most endangered spots of the town’s defences. He wanted to stay at least long enough for the fresh troops to find the rhythm of the fight; his presence on the wall seemed to frighten the superstitious Easterlings, and that could buy the defenders some life-saving moments. Later he intended to rest for a while. For the Nazgûl had not showed itself on the battlefield yet, and that fact filled Drizzt with unease.

Was it the Wraith’s plan to let the defenders exhaust themselves with fighting first, and then hit them with the full terror of its presence? Or did it want to fire the Easterlings into some terrible killing frenzy, so that no-one and nothing might remain of the merry town of Dale, that small but brave realm that had always resisted any conquering armies? Whatever it was, Drizzt wanted to be ready for it. When the time came, he would willingly release the hunter in him and fight with all the primeval instincts that he had honed for the uncounted years spent alone in the Underdark as an exile.

The fighting on the walls reminded a nightmarish massacre by now. The ladders were slippery with blood. The wall around the tops of them were soaked with it, too, colouring the stones purplish-black. Down below there were blood-stained, twitching heaps of dead and dying attackers. But the fresh troops pressed on over the dead, leaping and yelling to _Okkor_. Bugles sounded, drums rolled, and the warriors who had not reached the walls yet were still singing triumphantly, in the back rows, overwhelming the whinnying of horses, the groans of the dying and the creaking and snapping of ladders.

“Follow me!” the thundering voice of Weapons Master Dafydd ap Elisud could be heard above the deafening noise. “Use both your hands!”

Stained with blood to the waist, he was showing his men what he meant, whirling now his axe, now his pike, delivering huge blows. And it was good that he stood where he did, for through a sudden gap in the line of the defenders half a dozen Easterlings leaped up on to the wall. He turned his pike around one-handed and slammed the thick end right into the face of the first enemy he could reach.

“To me, sons of Dale!” he thundered, for there was already a swarm of Easterlings on the wall. Defenders were falling and dying, covered in blood, and suddenly, he felt himself surrounded by a sea of enemies.

Fresh troops from the barracks rushed up to deal with them, and there came King Brand in his royal person, crouched over the neck of his horse, shashing with his great sword on the heads of the ascending Easterlings. But the Khimmer warriors swarming up the wall were as densely-packed as an army of ants. The King sprang from his horse and dealt one of them a terrible blow, gripping his sword with both hands for more force and splitting the head of the Easterling in two. Another one he kicked down with his steel-tipped boot. By then, his knights caught up with him and pushed him back, to the relative safety within the walls. He was not allowed to put himself to risk 'til there was no other way.

The King knew that and stepped back to his horse. In that very moment, next to him a stockily-built, elderly man collapsed against the wall and fell along it. The helmet fell from his head and rolled to the King’s feet. Brand recognized the man, of course, despite the soot and blood covering his face. ‘Twas Govannion ap Sior, a small nobleman holding a few manors near Dale – father to the young knight Geraint, Princess Branwen’s husband. He still clutched his sword in his hand. From his neck, where an arrow had hit him, the blood flew in a long stream onto his breastplate.

But for grieving there was no time. The Easterlings were crawling up the walls in increasing numbers. One of the gold-seamed red standards was already flattering near the Gate Tower. Terror began to spread inside the town. All around it the air was shattered by the joyous Khimmer voices that now burst into a song of victory. The hearts of the defenders sank.

Standing in the shadow of the Gate Tower, Drizzt looked for a moment at the Long Lake. Would at least the women and children be able to escape through the underground tunnels to the water? He wondered. He had not thought that Dale would fall on the first day but feared now that it could not be prevented. Not only did the Easterlings greatly outnumber the defenders, their weapons were much better than Spymaster Turcaill had described them. Either Turcaill had lied to sacrifice Dale for his own purposes, or the Easterlings had received better weapons from Mordor itself. The presence of the Nazgûl suggested the latter.

Through the thinning veil of smoke Drizzt suddenly spotted movements upon the Lake. The sleek little _drakkars_ of Esgaroth were sliding towards the shore, unnoticed in the chaos of the siege. Was young Leifdall planning a desperate attack against the rearguard of the Easterlings to give the defenders of the town a moment of ease? He could not have hoped for more. They only had a few dozen archers on those ships.

But those archers were obviously equipped with flaming arrows. Drizzt could now see the tiny sparkles from his vantage point as the ships slid ashore – or, at least, close to it. The archers on board fired the flaming arrows at the tents. Those had been made of tough ox-hide, yet greased on the outside to keep eventual rain out. They caught fire, and soon the entire tent-town was transformed into a sea of flame.

By the time the Easterlings realized the burning in their camp, the _drakkars_ were already well on their way back to the middle of the Lake. There they were safe; the water was too deep for swimming, even for horses, and building rafts would have required skills the Easterlings did not possess.

The loss of their tents and a great deal of their supplies was a hard blow for the Khimmer army. They kept fighting for a while yet but had been disheartened, and the battle slowly died down after noon. They were warriors that fought of their own will; against it they could not be sent back to the battlefield. When the smoke dispersed and the sunshine broke through, one could see that the siege-ladders were empty. Beneath the walls lay hundreds of dead and wounded Khimmer warriors, blackened by soot and blood-stained. The moans of the dying had a terrible rhythm to it, like a song of inconsolable grief.

At first, the defenders could barely believe that the fighting was over for now. But as no more troops came up the ladders, the King had the buglemen blow for retreat. Only the usual guards remained in the watchtowers to keep an eye on the enemy’s movements. The rest went to their well-earned rest.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The _Thing_ of the Khimmer jarls from the Tribe of the White Kine resembled a funeral – that of someone who had died without honour. They had not fought personally in this first battle; they all wanted to break down the gate of the town, march in and complete the work of utter destruction from the inside. It seemed, though, that getting there would prove harder than they had hoped for.

The loss of a great deal of their supplies enraged them beyond measure. Now they would fight in the front lines when the new attack would be launched. They had to take the town quickly, to seize the foodstuffs and wine stored in its cellars and warehouses to feed their warriors properly.

For after Dale had fallen, they would march on right away, to drown Esgaroth in its damned Lake. Every consideration to spare the town of the Lakemen or any soul dwelling in it was now forgotten. Vengeance demanded that not a single wooden pylon, not as much as a newborn babe, might remain from it.

Well behind the Khimmer warriors sleeping exhausted on the freezing ground, Khamúl the Easterling was waiting for the coming of night in grim dissatisfaction. Siltric Silkbeard and his warriors had disappointed him greatly. But the Nazgûl had learned patience during the unnaturally long years of its existence. Under the veil of the night, it would call the water goblins and demand news from them. Those miserable creatures might believe they had been forgotten, but Sauron remembered them, and so did the Nazgûl. They would serve as they were meant to serve – or die. For Khamúl, neither solution was of great interest.

Tomorrow, the Khimmer warriors would storm Dale again. And this time they would be successful – or dead. Again, Khamúl cared not. The Tribe of the White Kine had proved a disappointment, but Rhûn was huge. It housed many other tribes; and many lesser jarls were eager to take over Siltric’s lands and position. ‘Twas all just a matter of time.

And time the Nazgûl had aplenty.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien had, indeed, considered making the Nazgûl incapable of crossing water, especially flowing water. However, it was never explained why.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 14**

As soon as the battle had died down and the enemy retreated from the walls – for the time being, at least – the defenders of Dale turned their attention to the damage done. The fires were put off, the charred roof beams torn off if necessary, so that no-one would get hurt by falling roof tiles, and the wounded brought to the infirmary.

The Healing House of Dale was a surface building, in one of the best-protected quarters of the town, for it would have been too stressful for ill or wounded people to be dragged underneath. It _did_ have a large underground hall, like all buildings in town, for times of great peril… like the one they were having right now. But the healers preferred to keep their patients in the sunlit rooms as long as possible. ‘Twas best for the spirit and aided the healing.

Drizzt was surprised that a town as large as Dale had only one healer: Annlaw ap Math, as small and wiry and bird-like as his wife, Helydd - the midwife of the town - was round and voluptuous and ruddy-faced. They were both elderly, childless, and devoted to their work. The barbers of Dale had come to help them treat the wounded, and some four or five apprentices were busily preparing bandages and tinctures in a small back room.

The barbers dealt with the most severely wounded first: those who had lost a limb during the battle. They bound off the maimed limb to stop the bleeding, cauterized the stump with white-hot iron and bandaged it as well as they could, hoping that there would be no infection later. The wounded then were given poppy juice in wine and laid on woollen blankets in a row, for space was precious and could become even more so as soon as the next attack started.

Few of them would live to see the end of the siege and they knew it. The resignation showed on their faces spoke more clearly than any words could have done.

Mistress Helydd and a good number of other women, who had volunteered to help with the wounded, were treating burns with some specific ointment. It had a rotten smell, but the injured seemed to feel better after the treatment. Young women and lads were carrying water in jugs and wooden cups to everyone, and the exhausted men drank greedily. ‘Twas a good thing that Dale had been built on the lakeshore. At the very least, they did not need to worry about running out of water.

Drizzt found Master Otir in one of the side rooms. The sturdy Lakeman’s face was ashen with pain, even in his sleep.

“He had been given some poppy juice,” explained one of the helpers to the Drow. “Master Annlaw worked for the better part of an hour to get the iron spikes and the bone splitters out of his shoulder.”

“Will he live?” asked Drizzt in concern, for even in the short time of their acquaintance, he had grown fond of the big, lusty Lakeman.

The helper shrugged. “He will, unless an infection sets in, as can always happen with such an ugly wound,” she said. “But he will never be able to bend a bow again. Not with that damaged shoulder.”

“That would be a hard blow for him,” said Drizzt. “He is the Master Bowman of Esgaroth, after all.”

“At least he is still alive, and with some luck might stay that way,” replied the helper. “Many others were less fortunate.”

And she looked out to the northern courtyard of the Healing House, where the fallen defenders had been laid and covered with straw mats to keep the carrion birds away. Drizzt could hardly argue with her.

The Drow thanked the helping woman and left the Healing House to see how the King, his knights and his captains were doing. Sad as it was that so many of the common folk had already been slain or grievously wounded, the fate of the town lay in the hands of the leaders. As long as they were unharmed and could keep up people’s spirits, there was still hope.

He found them in a good enough shape. Only Master Dafydd had a bad leg wound – and not even from enemy weapons but from a roof beam that fell down near him and one of whose splinters, a fairly big piece, pierced his leg like a spear-head. But the wound had already been tended to and properly bandaged, and though it obviously caused him considerable pain, he bore it stoically and did not allow it to bother him too much. His wife, Mistress Byrnach, with whom he had four grown children, seemed every bit as unshakable as he was. A soldier’s wife and the mother to two soldiers, she had long grown used to seeing her menfolk bloody and battered.

She was serving the King, his knights, his court officials and his captains a simple meal, such as could be prepared under the circumstances. While eating, the King listened to the reports from the captain and from Master Aeddan, his steward. It seemed that while the loss of lives was, sadly, considerable, the town itself had fared a little better. Other than the broken and charred roofs of some houses, no other damage had been done – so far.

“The attack in the morn will be much heavier than the one was today,” said Spymaster Fychan ap Rhys with emphasis. “Today they were hungry for booty. Tomorrow they will be hungry for blood and vengeance, too. They had hoped to overrun us easily. Now they know it will cost them a great deal of fighting and many lives.”

“It will cost _us_ many lives, too,” replied the King grimly. “I wonder what is keeping the Dwarves of the Mountain. We could use their battle-axes on our side.”

“And you shall have them, King of Men,” said a deep voice, and Dáin Ironfoot, the King under the Mountain, entered the room, clad in shining armour from head to toe. “We regret to have come late to the battle, but we were delayed by the work in our tunnels. We had to prepare the means to collapse them behind us, should the enemy break through our lines, to protect our families.”

Drizzt had to hide a smile. This strategy sounded so very Dwarfish; indeed, it reminded him of Bruenor’s defensive strategy at the time when the barbarians had tried to overrun Ten-Towns. Apparently, Dwarves were of a like mind in every plane of existence.

King Dáin had brought with him his personal guards and as many Dwarven warriors as Erebor could spare and still defend itself; all in all, two hundred and thirty of them, which was not a very high number. But they were Dwarves, meaning that every single one of them was at least worth two Men, if not more. The defenders were heartened by the sight of the short, stocky warriors in their shining armour and elaborate helmets, carrying great, double-bladed battle-axes or deadly battle-hammers, their beards braided and adorned with small golden or silver beads. They were a sight to behold; a sight to put fear in their enemies’ hearts.

The townspeople knew many of them personally: from the trade that had flourished between Erebor and Dale since both realms had been restored; from the markets held either in Dale or in Esgaroth; from caravans that passed through Mirkwood and over the High Pass under the protection of Dwarven guardsmen; from many feasts shared by both peoples on high days. Some of them, like Master Blacksmith Collen ap Collfrewr, had even been apprenticed to Dwarven craftsmen in their youth. For even though the Dwarf masters never shared every single one of their secrets, those who had been taught by them still turned out a great deal more skilled and knowledgeable than any other Man of the same trade.

Thus the Dwarven warriors were welcomed with joy, taken in with great hospitality and offered food and good, dark ale. They sat with their friends in _The Dragon’s Hoard_ , the largest inn in town and the only one still open during the siege, and sang ancient songs of honour and bravery in their deep voices: some in Khuzdul and some in Common, filling the hearts of the townspeople with new hope.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Aboard the _Grey Gull_ , young Leifdall was holding council with the other ships’ captains at the same time. They had all watched the first battle of the siege and were now seriously concerned about the outcome of the next one.

“We do not have enough men to harm the rear-guard of the Easterlings in earnest, or even to draw away many of their troops from storming the town,” said Leifdall grimly. “If the Dwarves of the Iron Hills need too long to get here, Dale will fall ere they can enter the battle. We need to ferry more of our people over, to ease the weight bearing down on the defenders.”

Thórvall, the most experienced among the _drakkar_ captains – a big, flaxen-haired man in his early forties – shook his head.

“I do not believe you would be able to convince the Master to allow any more soldiers to leave our town,” he said.

“And rightly so,” replied Leifdall, “for we need those to defend Esgaroth, should any of the Khimmer jarls decide to make a detour to the South, if for naught else than for food. But we could call for volunteers. No-one can hinder us to do so or forbid any men who want to come to the aid of Dale to follow us.”

“You hope to find any?” asked Thórvall doubtfully. “They would be too concerned about their own families to leave, I deem.”

“Yea, but many have blood-kin in Dale as well,” reminded him Leifdall. “I am not the only one who has taken a wife from the North, and I am certain that those others are just as concerned for their kin here as for their family back home. They would come if asked.”

“We cannot leave,” said Thórvall. “We are needed here.”

“Not all of us,” argued Leifdall. “We can sail home with two or three ships only, fill them with volunteers and return under the veil of the night.”

“Fill them with volunteers?” Thórvall shook his head in tolerant amusement. “I wish I had your faith, my friend.”

Leifdall sighed. “I have to try, at the very least. If Dale falls, we have no chance to prevail. Our fate will be decided here, on this battlefield.”

“I know that,” answered Thórvall, “but I fear you might not be able to convince our people; they have grown too comfortable since the fall of the Dragon. You are right, though; we must try, for that is our only chance. Go then. Whom will you take with you? Do you want me to go?”

“Nay,” said Leifdall. “I want you to take command over the remaining ships. You are respected, and the others listen to you. I shall take Starkadh and Daghr with their ships. Their oarsmen are young and strong. We shall need their strength to be back in time.”

“Good,” said Thórvall. “Just see to it that you slip away unnoticed while there is still day. They have one of those foul creatures with them, or can you not feel its dreary presence? If it catches you unaware during the night, it shall need no army to destroy you and any men who might follow you. They say those Wraiths draw their strength from the darkness itself.”

“The also say they cannot cross living water, and the Lake has two rivers flowing through it,” replied Leifdall, “but you need not to worry in any case. We shall be careful.”

And indeed, after a few quietly distributed orders, three of the sleek little _drakkars_ left the small fleet of Esgaroth. Thrice eight pairs of oars moved in unison and with almost no noise at all, to drive the ships, in the middle of the Lake where enemy spies would be hard-pressed to spot them due South, towards their home harbour.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Ever since the fleet of scout ships had left to ferry people to the aid of Dale, Master Ketill had been deeply concerned. He might not look like a great leader of Men, but he was, nonetheless, a man of wisdom and experience; that was why he had been chosen for his office. It had always been the way of the Lakemen to elect the Master from among the old and wise – not to mention the wealthy – instead of enduring the rule of mere fighting men, and Ketill was, so people generally thought, a good choice.

Personally, he had begun to doubt his own wisdom in recent times. For so many years, ever since Esgaroth had been rebuilt, things seemed to have gone so well. His own father had led the new town wisely, and thus people were forgetting the very real perils outside their small realm. Ketill himself had grown comfortable in wealth and safety, depending more and more heavily on the captains and the spymaster to deal with the outside world, and focused his attention on the immediate matters of town life and the legal regulations of trade and finances, with the help of his brother Kolbeinn, who happened to be a lawyer. And not just any lawyer, but one who had been taught the laws of Dale, the Riddermark and Gondor as well and wrote contracts for far-away merchant towns and great lords among Men, too. For a long time, Master Ketill had little doubt about the safety and the further flourish of Esgaroth.

Yet since the young Easterling Ásgeirr had been brought before him, the Master of Esgaroth had been questioning his past actions. Mayhap he should have given more of his attention to things that were happening in other realms. Mayhap he should have kept a closer eye on the actions of his spymaster and his captains. Trusting his people was good, but checking on them more often might have been better.

The questioning of young Ásgeirr had shaken his faith badly. The youngster knew very little about his uncle’s deeds, but Master Ketill needed just a few key facts to figure out the rest. That Turcaill could have betrayed him like that was hard to believe – the husband of his own daughter! Yet it seemed that the betrayal had begun before Turcaill would even take over as family head… Master Ketill could still barely accept it. The wealthy merchants of Esgaroth were concerned about their riches, that much was true, but never had they sold out their own people before.

Was this what the Dwarves called the Dragon Sickness? People becoming so obsessed with wealth and position that they would sacrifice everything for more, even their own family? And if so, how deep would the roots of betrayal reach? Who else was involved in the spymaster’s scheming?

He had not revealed to Turcaill the capture of young Ásgeirr yet. If Dale survived the siege – of which he Master of Esgaroth did have his doubts – there would be a formal hearing. All Turcaill’s deeds, and perchance those of his late father, needed to be laid open. Only a thorough investigation could show the full harm done. Only after that could Master Ketill consider how to save his own daughter, assuming she was _not_ part of her husband’s schemes, from sharing Turcaill’s fate… a fate that would not be pleasant. The Lakemen had harsh punishments for traitors from their midst.

Until that hearing, young Ásgeirr would be held in a secret place, bound and gagged, released only for his daily needs. Master Ketill had assigned the delicate task to four old Town Guards who had always been his most trusted men. _They_ would not betray him; of that he had taken care years ago. The young Easterling would be there to stand witness at his uncle’s trial.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. He called out to wherever it was to enter, and the captain of the Town Guard followed his call, bowing respectfully.

“Leifdall Thorleifsson has returned with two of his fellow captains, Master Ketill,” he reported. “It seems Dale has survived the first day of the siege; but the battle was horrible, he says. He is now recruiting volunteers to return with him to Dale’s aid. Should we let him do so?”

“Is he trying to convince any of the soldiers to abandon their posts and go with him?” asked the Master.

The captain shook his head. “Nay; he is only asking for volunteers from the common folk.”

“Then leave him alone,” ordered the Master. “’Tis better for us to keep the battle beneath the walls of Dale; they have a better chance to prevail. For if Dale falls, what else can we do than take our belongings on any ships as they are available and flee to the South? And to what end? There is war everywhere, from Mirkwood to the Riddermark and beyond, down to the southern Sea itself.”

“We could destroy the jetty and trust the Lake to protect us,” said the captain.

“For how long?” asked the Master. “How long would it take for the Easterlings, after they had levelled Dale and massacred everyone within its walls, to build rafts and do the same with Esgaroth? Or to destroy our town with fire? The Lake would not protect us for long, I fear. Nay, let Leifdall do as he wished. Our only hope lies in Dale now… and in the coming of the Dwarven army from the Iron Hills.”

The Master’s orders were handed down to the rest of the Town Guard, and so Leifdall Thorleifsson was allowed to take as many volunteers with him as his three ships could carry. To his pleasant surprise, the ships were full to the bursting point when they set sail only a few hours later. Many people, old and young alike, had understood the importance of stopping the Easterlings under the walls of Dale… or there would be no stopping of them at all.

The only one watching Leifdall’s recruiting with displeasure was Spymaster Turcaill. He had wanted Esgaroth to keep out of a battle not even the united forces of Dale and the Lakemen could hope to win. There was truly no need to get involved any more than they already had been. Whatever might happen to Dale, the Dwarves would deal with the aftermath, and even if he managed to beat the Dwarven army – which was by no means certain – Siltric Silkbeard would be too weakened to wish another battle with Esgaroth… even less so as an intact Esgaroth would be of much more use for him.

But Leifdall and the other heroic fools were just about to destroy any chance Esgaroth had to come out of the whole mess unharmed. Even defeated, Siltric Silkbeard would not forget that the townspeople had actively turned against him, had raised weapons against his army. After the departure of the fleet, two days back, Turcaill had again spoken in the Town Council _and_ before the leaders of the _Guild Merchant_ , spoken against any further involvement in the battle, but got outvoted once more. Even his fellow merchants began to give him strange looks whenever he spoke of restraint and properly careful actions.

Those pathetic fools! What did they hope for, to beat the army of one Khimmer chieftain – admittedly, a powerful one – and then live safely and unharmed for the rest of their mundane lives? The Easterlings were a proud people, a people of warriors who had only left the ships and caravans of the Lakemen alone because they had not seen them as a threat… and due to the long-time, carefully tended-to relationship to Turcaill himself and his father before him. 

But now they would feel wronged by the Lakemen, and as it was their wont, they would answer that wrong by destroying Esgaroth. They were not known for their forgiving nature. Most of them did not even know what forgiving _was_ , having lived in harsh, unforgiving lands for uncounted generations.

Turcaill did not intend to wait for the day of reckoning to come. During the previous night, he had sent much of his treasure to his fastest, strongest ship disguised as harmless sacks of barley, oat and rye. He had also sent his wife and daughters there, partly so that they would be in relative safety, partly because he did not want Eydís to gossip with her kin about his intention to flee the town at the first sign of trouble.

He called Prostr back from the remnants of Laketown to keep an eye on the womenfolk, for he could not trust anyone more. That meant leaving the lads behind, chained to the beams of the ruined house in which they were hidden, but that concerned him very little. The lads were of no importance. If the water goblins did not eat them beforehand, they would be starved ere the Easterlings got there. They could not betray him or his treasure.

In the townhouse, only his son Thorodd remained with him, and a few servants, to make the house seem inhabited. They would be left behind, too, when Thorodd and he escaped through the watergate with the boat that was waiting for them under the house. ‘Twas regrettable, but some always had to be sacrificed so that others could live.

Turcaill did not intend to be numbered among those who would be sacrificed. His entire family was prepared for every possibility; and with the treasure hidden in the flour sacks, they could begin a new live any time, in any place.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In that night, the Mordvin slaves of the Khimmer jarls were collecting the dead Easterlings from under the wall of the besieged city. The defenders did not hinder them. Respect towards the dead was one of the very few sentiments they shared with their enemy; and besides, they had their own dead to care for.

At home under their rocky hills, the Khimmer people usually entombed their fallen warriors in small, separate caves, together with their belongings and often with their wives and slaves slain to give them company, and then walled in the entrance so that no carrion-eaters could desecrate the bones of the dead heroes… including Orcs or Wargs. Here, far from their homes, they could not do that, so they chose the second best solution and gave the bodies to the fire.

The funeral pyres burned all night a little further down on the lakeshore, shrouding friend and foe with black smoke and the horrible stench of burned flesh.

Early in the morning, before daybreak, in truth, when the smoke finally dispersed and people could breathe again, the sentries reported a change… a surprising one. It seemed as if the Easterling army had withdrawn from under the walls. There was no sign anywhere of the big, heavy-boned horses of the Khimmer cavalry, the archers with their iron-encased bows, the _werfers_ with their pikes, the _valkyrie_ in their gleaming armour. Even the pack horses were absent.

“What has happened?” wondered Prince Meilyr, standing upon the blood-stained wall and looking for enemy movements with a spyglass, which had somehow found its way from Umbar to the North, through who knew which trade routes.

Drizzt, who had come up with him, shrugged. Whatever the reason might be, the absence of the enemy visibly lifted the hearts of the defenders a great deal. There was joy on the faces as people went about their duties. The women at the ovens sang as they baked the fresh loaves for the new day. The children were playing on the streets as in peacetime. The men gathered around the blacksmiths near the barracks to have their weapons freshly sharpened, and there was hope in their eyes again.

The Khimmer army had disappeared. It seemed certain that the Dwarven army of the Iron Hills was approaching. For where else could the Khimmer warriors have gone if not to encounter them?

The faces of the two Kings remained serious, though, and when they joined the Drow and Prince Meilyr on the wall to look out for the enemy with their own eyes, Drizzt’s heart sank again. He knew now that he might have misinterpreted the signs. He was new to Middle-earth, after all. There could be many factors he did not know yet.

“You do not believe the signs indicate the approach of the Dwarven army, do you, my Lord?” he asked King Brand.

The big, burly Man shrugged, but the gesture spoke more than any word. ‘Twas King Dáin Ironfoot who gave the Drow a proper answer.

“My people cannot be here yet,” he said in a low voice, so that he would not shatter people’s hopes, false though those might be. “And you can see the gabions that they have raised to protect their archers still in place. The slave-drivers with their whips are mostly here, too. Nay, they have not left... they are planning something.”

“I can see a large troop on horseback, beyond the place where the pyres were burning last night,” added Prince Meilyr, adjusting his spyglass. “Some of them are richly clad and heavily armed. They must be the jarls; perchance Siltric Silkbeard himself is among them, too.”

“What might the absence of the army mean, then?” asked Drizzt, a little confused.

King Brand shrugged once again. “It can only mean, Master Elf, that they have gone out into the forest, further down on the shore, where it is thicker.”

“The forest?” repeated Drizzt, still not understanding.

The King of Dale nodded. “And into the vineyards. See the horses coming back up along the shore? I bet they are carrying twigs and earth. They are going to fill in our moat and build a rampart where the walls seem the weakest to them.” He looked at Elf and Dwarf sternly. “But that is for your ears only. Let the people keep their hopes for a little while yet. After all, the Dwarf army _will_ come to our aid, will it not?”

“It most certainly will,” replied Dáin Ironfoot slightly insulted. “I just wish they could make better speed. Things are going to heat up here, all too soon.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As dawn finally broke, the Khimmer cavalry reappeared indeed. The clear morning light revealed that each warrior was leading his horse, and that each horse was loaded with twigs and vines in bundles. A long line of pack horses followed, carrying full sacks of earth. They approached in a single file, winding their way up the hillside towards the town.

Tuilindo ordered his Elven archers to aim at the horses, as much as they regretted having to shoot the poor beasts. But when a horse fell over, dying, there was always a Man or two, picking up the bundle of twigs and vines, and the line kept approaching. The Khimmer archers reappeared, too, sending a fiery rain of flaming arrows over the walls, and the Elves were forced to retreat; more so as the number of their arrows was not unlimited, and they had no means to replace them while bottled up within the town.

The children ceased playing on the streets and started picking up any arrows that fell down within the walls. They stomped out the burning points with practiced ease and took the shafts to the archers of the town. They were not best-suited for the bows used in Dale, but better than nothing. From time to time, the archers of Dale shot at the Mordvin slaves labouring on the makeshift rampart, but that did not help. As soon as one of them fell, hit by a deadly arrow, the slave-drivers whipped two others into obedience to take his place.

In the end, King Brand forbade the archers within the walls to shoot at them. “We would only waste our arrows, killing those poor slaves,” he said. “Save them for the true enemy.”

Dáin Ironfoot and his Dwarves were watching the work of the rampart-builders closely. They examined it from all sides, exchanging soft comments in low voices among each other but said nothing to the others, as yet.

“We need to find a way to slow down the construction,” he finally said to King Brand. “We must give my kin more time to reach Dale.”

King Brand sighed. “I know. But the thought of massacring these unfortunate slaves who have not chosen to fight against us disturbs me deeply.”

“Whether they chose to do so or not, they _are_ labouring on the destruction of your town,” the Dwarf reminded him soberly. “But you need not to have your Men shoot at the slaves. Let them shoot at the slave-drivers.”

Ieuan ap Ifor, who, standing nearby, had been listening to their conversation, shook his head. “They are out of our reach, I fear,” he said.

The Dwarf-King shrugged. “They are not out of the reach of Elves,” he pointed out.

Tuilindo judged the distance with a critical eye. In his green and grey garb, ash blond hair neatly braided away from his face so that it would not get caught by the bowstring, he looked like a young willow-tree on the bank of a brook. Looking at his fair, youthful face Drizzt had a hard time believing that the archer had already fought in the War of the Elves and Sauron in the Second Age, some four or five thousand years back, and had stood on the battle plain of Dagorlad, facing Barad-dûr itself.

“It is possible,” the captain of the Elven archers finally decided. “We shall give it a try. But your people should do something to… discourage the slaves as well, at least for a while.”

As his weapons master was still in the Healing House with that ugly leg wound, King Brand looked at his eldest son for suggestions. Prince Meilyr shrugged.

“Oil-dipped straw rings and fire, Sire,” he said. “That would work best. And if the slaves try to flee, the slave-drivers might come closer, too, offering a better target for Master Tuilindo’s people.”

At the King’s orders, twenty peasants came running, carrying straw rings dipped in oil in a large wicker basket. One after another, the straw rings were set alight with the help of torches and thrown down at the Mordvin slaves labouring on the building of the rampart. The rough garb of the poor wretches caught fire, and they threw themselves to the ground with piercing screams of pain and rolled around, trying to put out the flames.

The enraged slave-drivers run up wit their cruel whips, beating the injured men mercilessly.

“Up, you miserable dogs!” they shouted. “Back to work!”

“Now!” ordered Tuilindo, and a long line of Elven archers stepped up onto the wall. “Aim well!”

Amidst the chaos below, the singing of the great Elven longbows could not even be heard. Only when a dozen or so slave drivers fell over, dead, their throats pierced by Elven arrows, did the Khimmer troops realize what was happening.

“Down!” ordered Tuilindo, and the Elves jumped back from the wall ere the Khimmer archers could recover from their surprise and send another salvo of fiery arrows over the walls. A few of those arrows hit Drizzt full on the chest but slid down from the Dwarf-made armour harmlessly. Knowing that a lesser breastplate could not have withstood the strong, iron-headed arrows of the Easterlings, the Drow made a mental note to thank Master Glóin, but stepped down from the wall nonetheless. There was no need to challenge fate.

For the moment, the building of the rampart seemed to have been stopped. The Easterlings withdrew from the walls, a few unharmed slaves helping their compatriots who had been badly burned and beaten to retreat into safe distance. Dáin Ironfoot looked after them thoughtfully.

“We have won some time,” he said, “but not much, I fear. The Easterlings are mad for vengeance, and they are a resourceful people. They will think of something to carry on this work.”

“What might they come up with?” asked Drizzt. He had had some limited experience with besieged towns in his previous life in Faerûn, but it was obvious that the Dwarf knew more about such things. More than anyone else present, most likely.

“I know not… not yet,” replied King Dáin. “We shall see what they are up to soon enough, though.”

“Whatever it will be, we need to stay prepared,” said King Brand. “Master Aeddan,” he looked at his steward, “release the reserves of fat and tallow that we have kept for this very purpose. Master Ieuan, keep your archers on the wall. All others – rest as long as you can. We shall not have many restful nights before us, I fear.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien mentions that Arwen sat under a canopy in “Many Meetings". I thought the Kings of Gondor would have followed that Elven custom in their highdays. The use of wooden canopies by fifteenth-century Turks is reported from the siege of the Hungarian fortress Eger. They were called “objects” back then, but I did not want to use the expression, as it is too strongly related to that particular historical event.
> 
> The Khimmer burial rites are based on, yet not completely identical with, the old Viking customs.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 15**

It took them but a few hours to discover what the Easterlings had been up to. They had been constructing canopies rather like those beneath which mighty Kings and their Queens had used to sit in earlier times, far South in Gondor, when the South-kingdom had been at the zenith of its power. Except that _these_ canopies had been made of strong wooden planking and could be carried from one place to another, supported by pikes. Under the protection of such mobile shelters they could then transport the earth and bush-wood, without offering the archers of the town any suitable targets.

The archers were furious, of course, as they could not shoot the Easterlings under those canopies, but there was very little they could do about it. Not even flaming arrows were of any use, for the Easterlings had splashed the wooden planking with water generously at every turn, thus they would not catch fire easily. Ieuan ap Ifor, realizing it, forbade his men to waste their arrows, but he did not like it at all. King Brand, too, was deeply concerned that they could not hinder the enemy in carrying out its plan.

“They have found a way easily enough,” he said gloomily.

Dáin Ironfoot shrugged his heavy shoulders. He seemed the only one not particularly concerned – not about _this_ turn of events anyway.

“Those things only protect them as long as they keep them flat above their heads,” he said. “As soon as they come within reach, we can grapple the canopies with pick-axes or iron hooks and turn them over. Or you can pour burning fat and oil _under_ them and cripple the warriors beneath without shooting as much as a single arrow.

Drizzt shuddered by the thought what a horrible death _that_ would be. But they could not waste their pity on the enemy that would not pity them, either.

“Very well, then,” said King Brand with a defeated sigh. “Let them work for the time being – but keep an eye on them. All captains, use the break to have a good sleep while you can, for I have the bad feeling that this day has not been spent with building alone.”

“May I suggest the same to you, Sire?” asked his elderly steward. “You have barely slept last night… and our people will need your strength on the walls when the attack begins.”

“He is right,” said the Dwarf-King. “Go and rest, my Lord; we shall watch the enemy. We have not fought yet and thus are in our full strength; and besides, Mahal has made us for endurance. We need less sleep than Men do.” He glanced at Drizzt from under heavy, iron-grey eyebrows. “You, too, Dark Elf. You will be needed in the darkness of the night.”

“Does he believe that the Easterlings are going to launch a night attack?” asked Drizzt, walking on Tuilindo’s side towards the King’s guesthouse. Neither of them intended to actually sleep, but showing some willingness to obey was easier than arguing with the old Dwarf. At least they could rest a little, and for the Drow it was better to do so in the bright daylight, when the surface creatures around him were awake and alert. He needed to be at his best during nighttime… if there was to be a night attack indeed.

Considering the question for a moment, Tuilindo shrugged gracefully. “Dáin Ironfoot is a veteran of many battles,” was all he said.

“So are you… even more,” said Drizzt.

“True,” replied Tuilindo, “but ‘tis different for mortals, I am told. And Dwarves understand the nature of Men – even Men like the Easterlings – better than we do, for they share certain character traits… or should I say character flaws? …like greed and vengeance.”

“All creatures of these planes share them,” answered Drizzt thoughtfully. “Or are you telling me that the Elves of Middle-earth are an exception?”

“How could I assume something like that?” asked Tuilindo. “We live in a world marred by the evil of Morgoth, and that evil lives in all of us, to a certain extend, and will live on ‘til Arda is re-made. After three Kinslayings – even if our kindred had nothing to do with it – I cannot pretend that we Elves have been untouched by evil.”

“ _Three_ Kinslayings?” repeated Drizzt in shock. In all his years as a warrior, his first principle had been never to slay any of his own kind. He could not always hold to this principle, but he had tried, if it was possible.

“’Tis a long story and very old… two Ages back,” replied Tuilindo. “One day, after this war is over, I shall tell you; but not now. Now we need to rest; it will be short enough as it is.”

The two Elves retreated to the balcony of the King’s guesthouse, preferring to stay outside, and each they fell into his own meditative trance. In times like this, full sleep would have been dangerous, but waking dreams were restful enough for their kind.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When they retreated from their respective spiritual journeys a few hours later, the afternoon sun shone on newly-erected wooden ramparts around the town. The deep gully on the south-eastern side had been partly filled in; the walls were the highest opposite the Gate. The base was made of twigs, dried scrub from the forest, and bundles of vines; all this was covered with earth. The Easterlings were obviously going to carry on with this work ‘til the ramparts were high enough to enable them to fire their arrows over it and launch an attack on the town walls without using ladders.

Once again, King Brand was standing on the wall, clad in shining armour, and watched them grimly.

“They are going to wait ‘til nightfall,” he said. “That rampart will grow a great deal in that time.”

“That might be their plan, I fear,” replied his son, Prince Meilyr. “Fortunately for us, some of them appear to be rather impatient.”

And he pointed down where two very wide wooden canopies were moving forward to the Gate. They were held by eight pikes, and each had room enough under it for twenty or thirty Khimmer warriors.

“Hot water and oil!” ordered Prince Meilyr, who had taken over Weapons Master Dafydd’s duties. “Bring barrels of pitch, grappling-irons, hooks and clamps, lots of them!” For he saw not only the movement of the wooden canopies, but also the fact that the Easterlings had already made steps out of sacks filled with earth, as if creating a great, wide stairway, upon which they would be able to bring numerous troops right to the Gate Tower.

“There will be a desperate fight as soon as they reach the wall,” commented Drizzt. “I wonder, though, why do they not bring torches with them.”

Prince Meilyr shrugged. “If their spies are any good, which I suppose they are, they would know by now that there is not much in town left to be burned. Master Tudur!” he called out to the captain of the spearmen. “Are you ready?”

“More than ready,” replied Tudur ap Bledri, surveying his men who stood near the Gate Tower, with all kinds of grappling-irons and hooks on chains in their hands. In the Tower itself, fat was melting in great cauldrons. A bit further pitch-dipped straw rings glimmered black in neat piles around the fire that was burning right on the wall.

Aye, they were ready. As ready as they could ever be, facing what might prove their deaths.

Below the walls suddenly several large canopies began to approach the walls, with armed Khimmer warriors huddled under them.

“Hold your arrows!” Ieuan ap Ifor shouted. “You cannot hit them just yet. Wait ‘til the canopies are upturned!”

“Have the boiling fat ready!” bellowed Drudwas ap Aeddan, son of the King’s steward, to whom command over the peasants had been entrusted. The hard-working Men, in peacetime farmers and fishermen, carried the cauldrons with the liquid tallow carefully onto the wall. Behind them, the women replaced the cauldrons with new ones.

Master Tudur’s spearmen, standing on the wooden palisade behind the wall, bent over with their hooks to upturn the first canopy with them. At the same time, some of the peasants began to throw flaming straw rings at the warriors beneath.

“Dip the cauldrons!” thundered Drudwas ap Aeddan.

The peasants followed his orders immediately. Hot, liquid tallow poured down at the attackers, and a flaming straw ring set man and wooden planking afire. One after another, the Easterlings threw away the pikes holding their burning shelter and retreated to escape a death in fire.

“Now!” Tuilindo and Ieuan ap Ifor called as one.

Elven and Mannish archers stepped onto the walls and shot the fleeing Easterlings with deadly accuracy. The momentum of the attack was broken, the enemy needed to regroup.

But ‘twas only a moment for both sides to catch their breaths. Barely had they beaten back the first attackers, when the true wave of determined barbarians surged forth. The Easterlings swarmed hard on each other’s heels upwards under their protective canopies. The defenders drenched them in burning tallow, but somehow, if necessary on the backs of their dead or dying comrades, they had managed to make their way up to the Gate Tower.

“ _Okkor! Okkor_!” the others bellowed behind them.

“Strike them!” shouted the captains of Dale. “Hit them!”

On the other side of the Gate, somewhat further to the East, where a small watchtower stood poorly protected, hundreds of Khimmer warriors assembled to climb the wall. The soldiers of Dale, without a captain to instruct them, reached down along the wall with grappling-irons and pikes, pushing, dragging and chopping at the canopies as well as they could.

But they were not fighting some lowly rabble of Orcs. The Easterlings were battle-hardened warriors, maddened with bloodlust, and they had no fear of an honourable death in battle. Drizzt saw with sinking heart how an armoured female warrior, one of the infamous _valkyrie_ , leaped onto the wall, defying death, and, whirling her two iron-clad hands, she smashed the hooks and pikes within reach. That was a somewhat weaker point of the wall, and the Easterlings seemed to know it. If they succeeded in breaking through there, there would be no way to stop them.

Even if he had not had his own Easterlings to fight, Drizzt was too far from the endangered spot to get there in time. A second, then a third armoured Khimmer warrior – perchance the bodyguards of a lesser jarl – had already followed in the female warrior’s wake. The Men of Dale seemed helpless against them, and the Easterlings further down were howling with delight.

In that moment, a short, powerful, gleaming figure leaped onto the wall from within. ‘Twas a Dwarf, and a huge BlackLock at that, wielding a mace two Men could not have lifted. Two horns, strengthened with golden rings, adorned his helmet.

“Baruk Khazâd!” he thundered in a voice that could be heard all over the battlefield. “Khazâd ai-mênu!”

He swung his great mace and bore it down onto the side of the female warrior’s head. The powerful strike split her helmet nearly in two as her head was broken. She fell back among her fellow warriors. Her long, russet hair became loose during her fall and now flowed down her hauberk like dried blood.

With another swing of his mace, the Dwarf slew the two remaining elite guards. But while he was fighting these three, some twenty other Easterlings had clambered forward over them, pushing one of the smaller canopies onto the wall. Beneath it, a dozen archers were kneeling and shooting arrows at the defenders fighting near the small watchtower.

“ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” yelled hundreds of Khimmer voices down below to encourage them.

“Victory is in our grasp!” shouted others from above, climbing the small tower to claim it as theirs. That would be their beachhead into the town itself.

“ _Death_ is in your grasp, vermin!” roared the great Dwarf, adding something in Khuzdul at which half a dozen other Dwarves surged forth, the iron-headed Khimmer arrows bouncing back harmlessly from their superior armour. They hooked their battle-axes round the pikes holding up the canopy and pulled them away.

Only now did the defenders on the wall realize that the small tower had been occupied. For a moment, they appeared completely clueless of what they should do about it, and the fate of the battle – indeed, that of the very town – was balancing on knife’s edge. But then a young Man came running up with a wicker basket full of small earthenware pots: fire-balls they were, similar to those thrown over the walls by the Easterlings earlier. Apparently, the Men of Dale were quick learners and had copied the enemy’s inventions for their own purposes. The eyes of Drudwas ap Aeddan lit up at the sight.

“Forget the bows!” he shouted. “Give them fire!”

The peasants awoke from their shock and grabbed at the fire-balls, throwing them at the tower with their bare hands, using the skills developed while they had thrown stones at the birds feasting on their fields. The small pots burst within the narrow tower chamber, the liquid fire within catching the Easterlings’ clothes, the flames growing more intense from moment to moment. The brave Khimmer warriors, who would face any living opponent unwaveringly, hurled themselves off the tower with screams of agony. Those who fell outside at least died a clean death, breaking their necks with a simple crack. Those who leaped down into the town itself had to bear the full wrath of the frightened townspeople. They were beaten to death with such fury that every single bone in their bodies was broken.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The battle for those two important spots continued on ‘til nightfall. While the Khimmer warriors kept swarming the wall like ants, the Mordvin slaves were still building the rampart in other places. The defenders were forced to leave the builders alone; they simply did not have the numbers to fight two different battles at the same time. As the warriors were the greater threat at the moment, they needed to be beaten back first.

And the warriors kept coming. Somewhen during the day they must have slain their pack horses, for the new canopies under which they were now rushing up the half-done rampart were covered with damp hides, rendering the burning straw rings useless.

The ramparts did still not reach the walls, thus the Easterlings pushed out short siege-ladders from under the canopies to span the gap, swarming them within moment by the dozens.

“Bring fire!” shouted Prince Meilyr. He had been on the walls since early afternoon, his once shining armour smeared with soot and the blood of his slain enemies, his young face badly bruised, one eye swollen shut from a vicious punch he had not quite been able to avoid. “Bring straw and pitch and whatever you can find!”

His voice, clear and strong, was carried down to the barracks by the wind. Peasants came running up to fulfil his request, and soon hundreds of blazing straw rings flew down on the Easterlings. Burning bundles of straw and oily wood enveloped the ladders and on top of them fell pitch-dipped shingles.

The first group of Khimmer warriors trying to burst through the blazing fire ran right into the points of hooks and pikes, wielded by the well-trained spearmen of Tudur ap Bledri. The rest were received with the swords, axes, burning clubs and flailing maces of Dáin Ironfoot’s Dwarven warriors. The horrible crash of breaking bones could be heard even as far as the Gate Tower where Drizzt was fighting.

The Drow felt the long battle – fought under the bright face of the Sun at that – beginning to weigh down on him. Regardless of the fact that he had been fighting all his life, prolonged battles had been scarce among his experience. The Khimmer warriors were stronger than the average Men, save the barbarians of the tundra, and trapped on the wall, he could not use his true advantages: his superior speed and dexterity.

Suddenly a huge, one-eyed Khimmer warrior appeared on the siege-ladder, bursting through the fire in his bronze hauberk as if the flames could not cause him any harm. He bore no shield but a short lance in one hand and a spiked mace in the other one. His face was twisted into that of some ugly monster from the berserker rage that filed him. A young soldier of Dale tried to stop him, but he wiped the young Man from the wall with his mace like a rag doll and launched at Drizzt with a roar that sounded like that of some wild beast.

He moved with the unpredictable ferocity of a wild beast, too. Standing on the wall, Drizzt had no space to back off, lest he wanted to fall back into the town and break his neck. Yet he also knew that he had very little chance to fight this particular opponent and live beyond the fight. However, he was determined not to give his life easily.

The Drow managed to duck the first swing of the mace and slapped away the first thrust of the spear, but the Easterling was frighteningly fast for such a large Man and strong like a bear. Drizzt wounded him with both his scimitars, slipping in deep cuts under his arms, right above the edge of his breastplate, but it seemed as if the maddened warrior had not even noticed the injuries, which were bleeding freely. He would die from the blood loss, eventually, but not ere he had succeeded in slaying the Dark Elf.

“ _Okkor_!” he roared, showing broken, yellow teeth. “Accept the head of this black demon and grant us victory!”

He struck with the mace and thrust with the lance at the same time, effectively cutting off any possible way of escape – he was broad enough to trap the slim Drow from both sides. Drizzt leaped as high as he could, as this was the only way left open for him, and prepared himself to die. To his amazement, however, he found himself several feet above the Easterling’s head, floating safely out of reach.

That was impossible! He had not been able to levitate for nearly a century! Was it the grave danger that had brought forth the ability anew, or was he truly meant to fulfil some kind of destiny here in Middle-earth?

Whatever the reason might be, he was not going to question his good fortune. Letting go of the levitation spell by an act of sheer willpower, he landed on the siege-ladder behind the one-eyed warrior and beheaded the Man with a clean, sure strike.

“May your god appreciate the only head you can offer him,” he said, kicking said head down among the attackers.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, the battle raged on all along the town walls. The Easterlings had thronged together at the most promising spots like ants whose nest had been disturbed. They charged through the fire, over the burning bridge of siege-ladders. One or two of them risked the desperate leap at the walls and were barely able to cling to the stone – only fall to their deaths with bleeding heads and blazing clothes. The defenders of the town knew no mercy.

And yet this, too, was but a drop of water in the Long Lake.

King Brand, his knights and his captains were on the walls all the time, fighting, encouraging – and sometimes cursing – tirelessly. Where they fought, the hearts of the defenders eased a little, new hope blossoming in their breasts. But as soon as the King moved on to the next endangered spot in need of defence, people’s hears became heavy again.

The Dwarves were the only exception. Standing upon the wall like unmovable statues of solid rock or iron, with their sturdy feet apart, they fought with the furious joy of the well-prepared. The thrill of revenge had tightened their already thickly corded muscles like a spring that had been wound up. They were like a force of nature – there was no holding them back. The Easterlings fell under the strikes of their great axes, battle-hammers, maces and broadswords like cut grass.

“Baruk Khazâd!” thundered the iron-clad Dwarven warriors, joyous about the victory over such worthy opponents who nearly matched them in strength. “Khazâd ai-mênu!”

They beat down at the helmeted heads of the Easterlings as they would have beaten iron upon their great anvils. Their powerful strokes would have shattered the skull of an ox; mere Men had no chance to survive. Even the helmets of the common Khimmer soldiers that looked like narrow-brimmed hats of solid iron dented deeply or split in two when hit by a Dwarf. The other defenders found their hearts strengthened again and went to fight with renewed strength.

No-one could tell when the wave of the Easterling attack broke. But all of a sudden, the Khimmer warriors seemed to have had enough for one day. They began to retreat the same way they had come, by way of the huge earthwork-and-wood ramparts, leaving behind hundreds of dead comrades below the town wall, burning and consumed by flames, and the dying among the corpses, alight and screaming in agony.

As soon as the Easterlings had got some distance from the walls, the town gate opened and mounted Gate Guards, led by Cuhelyn of Dafydd, charged out through it, driven by the fury of angry wolves protecting their young, as they mercilessly beat, stroke and slew all who still moved or was too slow in their retreat. Prince Meilyr stared after them with a strange mix of pride and concern on his bruised face.

“Sound the retreat!” he ordered the buglemen, fearing that in their wrath, his men might get carried away and pay dearly for their short victory.

“Back! Back!” several bugles sounded as one immediately.

And indeed, Cuhelyn ap Dafydd could scarcely get his men to obey his command to return. It had felt too good to be the one to pursue the fleeing enemy for a change.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Needless to say that Siltric Silkbeard was anything but happy about the new failure to take the town. He realized that he had underestimated the Dwarves and their willingness to come to the aid of Dale, and that this miscalculation could cost him dearly. The Nazgûl had already expressed its dissatisfaction with all the time the siege of such an insignificant little town had taken; it would not take the repeated failure kindly.

Siltric Silkbeard knew no fear of any natural foe; his size, his fighting skills and his well-made weapons ensured that no opponent had a true chance to stand against him. But an undead monster like the Nazgûl could not be slain by mere weapons; could not be bested by mere bravery. Siltric knew that all too well. His people had lived under the sway of Mordor – which also meant under the iron boots of the Nazgûl – for a very long time.

When he had successfully defended his right to follow his dying father as the chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, the elders, who had served his father Thorlac with advice all his life, initialized him in the mysteries of the tribe. He had been brought before the _norna_ – a ghastly and quite mad old woman, also called the handmaiden of death – who could tell the future from the thrown bones of a white kine, ritually sacrificed to hold a great feast in the honour of the new chieftain. There Siltric had been given a draught that caused him strange visions, and the _norna_ interpreted those visions for him. He had known from that day on that he had been called for great deeds… but also that he would be slain mercilessly, should he, for any reason, fail his calling.

He would never have believed that such a worthless little town like Dale might cause his untimely downfall. He still hoped that they could yet succeed. The filthy Dwarves had disturbed his well-laid plans – he had been preparing for this move for years upon years – but all was not lost yet. The Dwarves were an inconvenience, aye, but they were few in number. Siltric still had a huge army at his disposal. In the end, they would overrun Men and Dwarves as they took the town, and even make those Elves know death, no matter how many Ages they had supposedly roamed Middle-earth.

They were the past, and the future belonged to the Khimmer warriors.

Still, he mourned the loss of such great heroes as the one-eyed Bardr Jarl, slain by that cursed Dwarf that very day. Although Bardr had not been a pleasant companion, he had been very useful. Berserks who would go through fire in their battle-rage, not even feeling any injuries, always were. Their fanatic bloodlust frightened all their opponents out of their minds. And while the battle-rage could be called forth by certain draughts, berserks who were born that way were extremely rare and highly valued among the Khimmer warriors.

They would miss Bardr in the next battle. They would miss his strength, his rage, his merciless blade.

Right after the retreat, Siltric had ordered a hero's funeral for Bardr. The man deserved it… if for naught else, then to encourage the others to fight even harder, more passionately. They had no way to give the fallen hero a proper stone tomb, they would have to burn him on a pyre, like the others, but they could, at least, do so with all due honour. And a funeral feast afterwards would lift the hearts of the others and fill them with vengeance.

Siltric had already selected one of the slave girls who had been brought with the troops for this very purpose and sent her to all the surviving jarls, one after another, so that she would know them all ere being slain on her master’s byre. Meanwhile the other slaves had built a great pyre, on which the fallen Bardr would be burned, laid the corpse atop the wood, in full battle regalia, surrounding it with riches; mostly of bronze, for that was the true wealth of the Easterlings, but a few small items of silver and gold had been offered by his friends, too. His bodyguards had slain his horse, hacked it to pieces and laid the parts next to him as well.

In front of the pyre, the door symbolizing the passway to the realm of the honoured dead had been built: naught more than a frame made of three pieces of wood, standing in the middle of nowhere. Having lain with the slave girl as the last of Bardr’s friends, Siltric released her into the care of the bodyguards.

“My master thanks you,” she said, smiling, and followed the men willingly, for there was no greater honour for a mere slave than to die with his or her master.

As they reached the wooden doorframe, two of the bodyguards held up their hands for the girl to stand in, and they raised her above the door.

“Lo!” she called out joyously. “I see my father and mother!” The men lowered her, then raised her again, and her eyes became wide and amazed. “Lo! I see my master as he sits on a throne in the Realm of the Honoured Dead! The Realm is beautiful and green. He calls me. Bring me to him!”

They lowered her again, and now other bodyguards came forth, offering her cups of mead, while the assembled warriors began to beat on their shields, making a great noise. She took the first, drank with a smile and said. “With this, I take leave of those who are dear for me.”

She was offered the second cup, which she also drained, saying, “With this, I take leave of you all.”

The two cups of strong mead had made her quite drunk. Still, as she set her eyes on the pyre, at least, she seemed to falter, as if she had wanted to escape after all. But the bodyguards of the fallen hero had watched her. Two of them wound a rope around her neck, and both pulled at it. The girl gasped and collapsed back. Her cries were masked by the pounding on the shields.

As the bodyguards were strangling the girl, a third one stepped forth and plunged a dagger through her ribs. At a proper funeral, that would have been the privilege of the _norna_ , but they had not brought any of the highly respected (and much-feared) old priestesses with them. Even so, the girl writhed but a moment, then died and was thrown onto the pyre with her master.

Now the archers with the flaming arrows stepped forth and ignited the pyre. As it had been drenched with tallow, it caught fire within moments, turning into a blazing hill of fire very soon. The pounding on the shields became deafening, and the archers then set regular arrows on their bowstrings and turned on the bodyguards, slaying every single one of them with arrows for not having been able to save their lord. Their bodies, too, were added to the pyre.

Siltric Jarl draped his arm around the shoulders of his friend and rival Revyak.

“He burns well,” he said. “His way to the Realm has been secured. Now let us call for more mead and for the serving wenches to offer him a proper farewell.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The Nazgûl had watched the burial ceremony from some distance with detached disinterest. ‘Twas a custom that had already existed in its mortal days – one it had come to recognize as completely useless. Yet as the Dark Lord of Mordor delighted in death and destruction, Khamúl made no attempts to hinder the Easterlings in carrying it out, even if it found the slaying of the well-trained guards wasteful.

“Do you truly believe that they would serve Bardr in the afterlife?” the Nazgûl asked the young barbarian who had been called before its presence as soon as the ritual had begun.

Sigurrd, son and heir of Siltric Silkbeard, shrugged uncertainly. “’Tis but an old superstition, I deem,” he answered. “For me, the true power lies in this world, not in the afterlife.”

“And wise you are to think so,” said the Nazgûl coldly. “When you are dead, there will be naught. No-one knows what happens with mortal Men on the end of their journey, not even the Elves who like to pretend they know everything. So; do you want all that this world can give you, then?”

“I do,” said the young Man. “Power and honour and riches and servants… I want them all.”

“Very well,” answered the Nazgûl. “I shall make you the new chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, then… in Sauron’s name.”

“I am not strong enough yet to challenge my father!” protested the young Man.

“There will be no need,” said the Nazgûl. “He who was your father has failed and will be removed. Warriors of the Tribe of the Wolf will arrive in great numbers under the veil of the night to join your men. You shall be the warlord of all. You shall take the town for the Dark Lord tonight.”

“Removing my father might prove more difficult than you believe,” said the young Man. “He is much respected and has devoted guards.”

“Young fool!” replied the Nazgûl with such cold contempt that it froze the blood in Sigurrd’s veins. “Do you think you are dealing with one of your own? It has already begun. Look and see!”

Sigurrd looked at the fire round which the surviving jarls were seated, hailing the fallen hero with their cups. One of the slave girls offered a particularly beautiful, jewelled bronze cup to Siltric Silkbeard, who drank greedily after a boast regarding the late Bardr. Then he sat down again, drank the rest from the cup and, laughing uproariously, yanked the slave girl to him to fall over her.

“Tomorrow,” said the Nazgûl coldly, “there will be another funeral feast for the Tribe of the White Kine. But that feast will be held in the marketplace of Dale.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, the Battle of Dale lasted from March 17-20, Third Age 3019.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

**PART 16**

As soon as the Easterlings had retreated, it began to rain. Only at nightfall did the clouds part as the biting March wind whistled along the dark surface of the Long Lake. The defenders had rested during the rainfall as well as they could in the now roofless houses; no-one had dared to risk sleeping in any of the underground chambers, for fear that they would not be able to reach their posts in time if needed.

King Brand called his knights and captains to the _Hall of Audiences_ : the stone chamber under the belfry, where he usually welcomed his guests and listened to the petitions of his subjects. All had come, from Sir Anarawd, the chief of his knights through Master Aeddan, the steward, to Meirion ap Madog, the Bell-Guard - and their wives, too, as in Dale the ladies of the court also had the right to speak when hard decisions had to be made.

King Dáin Ironfoot and his two greatest warriors had also been invited: Dori, his closest advisor in military matters, and Thekk, the captain of his Forge Guards: a powerful warrior from the IronFist clans. The Elves were represented by Tuilindo, their captain, and Drizzt had been invited, too, alongside Gunnar Otirsson, who now spoke for the soldiers of Esgaroth in his severely wounded father’s stead.

First, the King of Dale listened to Master Aeddan’s report about the losses of life and the damage the town had suffered so far. ‘Twas _not_ an encouraging report. Even Drizzt, who had no previous knowledge about the resources of the town, could understand that.

“We cannot keep losing lives like this,” said Master Dafydd grimly. He had been supported by his son coming over from the Healing House and was now sitting in a comfortable chair, his face taut and pale with pain, his leg heavily bandaged. “If the Dwarves of the Iron Hills do not arrive within the next day, they will find but an empty town here… save for the dead bodies.”

“Are you suggesting that we give up Dale?” asked Prince Bard angrily. “The very town we have just rebuilt after the devastation of the Dragon?”

The weapons master shrugged. “Houses can be rebuilt; lives cannot,” he answered simply. “I shall bow to the decision of the majority, though.”

“We should at least bring the elderly, the children and the wounded to safety,” said Queen Regath quietly. “That is, if we are still welcome under the Mountain.”

Dáin Ironfoot bowed in her direction deeply. “You are welcome as always, my Lady Queen,” he said. “All that cannot fight because of their age or their injuries, should be taken through the tunnels up to the mountainside, and they will be taken in readily. After that, we shall collapse your tunnels, though, so that the Easterlings, should they be able to take the town, would not have an easy way to besiege Erebor. We will need the time to bring ourselves to safety, too.”

“Do you believe they will follow us?” asked King Brand.

Dáin Ironfoot nodded. “Oh aye, they will. We have denied the Nazgûl its wish thrice; it has not forgotten our defiance. Erebor was marked as a target long ago.”

“But if your kinfolk arrive from the Iron Hills in time, the Easterlings will have no chance to win,” said Sir Anarawd. “Mayhap we can hold the town yet ‘til their arrival.”

“We shall certainly try, albeit I doubt that we can,” replied the Dwarf-King. “Besides, who says the Easterlings cannot call for reinforcements as well? There are many lesser tribes that have but meagre lands alongside the border – if they band together, they can bring up quite the army between them.”

“Siltric Silkbeard would never share a glorious victory with other, lesser chieftains,” said Gunnar Otirsson. “’Tis not in the nature of a powerful Khimmer jarl to do so.”

“Siltric Silkbeard is not the one who ultimately gives the orders,” replied the Dwarf, “and the Nazgûl will not care about the honour or glory of _any_ Khimmer jarl. All it cares about are our deaths.”

“Do you think that other Easterling troops will join Siltric Jarl’s army, my Lord King?” asked Spymaster Fychan ap Rhys in concern.

The Dwarf-King nodded. “I am certain of it, Master Fychan. Sauron has assigned the Easterlings the task of conquering Rhovanion; for that task, a single tribe would not be enough. The smaller hordes would do their best – or should I say their worst? – to make themselves a good name and to enlarge their wealth through booty. I do not doubt, either, that Sauron seeks to increase the rivalry between the tribes, as Ragnar the Smith has grown too strong – and too cautious – already to serve his purposes without asking.”

“The lesser jarls would be eager to show their worthiness,” agreed Queen Regath with a sigh. “Indeed, my Lord, I believe we should take our people to Erebor this very night. Only those who can fight or otherwise help defend the town should remain here.”

“I fear you are right, Lady mine,” replied the King. “However, I also wish our son and heir, Prince Bard, to go with them; and his bride, the Lady Melangell, should go, too.”

“Father!” protested Prince Bard, forgetting even to give his royal sire the proper address in his shock.

“My place is with our people!” protested the Lady Melangell, too.

“You are right; it is,” answered the King. “And that is why you must go with the weak and the wounded. You are their future King and Queen – you must survive. For if we perish in the siege, the people would need leadership. They will need you… both of you. Nay,” he said sternly, seeing that his son wanted to protest some more, “be quiet, Prince of Dale! You King has spoken.”

“Worry not,” added the Lady Eilonwy, Prince Meilyr’s bride, “for I have been taught to wield the sword as men do, and I shall take your place in the line of defence.”

To Drizzt’s surprise, no-one seemed to find the idea of a royal princess fighting among common soldiers strange. Thus the decision of evacuating all those who could not fight to Erebor was made, and people began the preparations without delay. Those not needed to help were sent back onto the walls, or to find a little sleep as long as it was still possible.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt spent those hours near the Gate Tower, in the agreeable company of Tuilindo. Neither of them trusted the sudden retreat of the Easterlings. There had to be some hidden agenda behind that; more so now that they could both sense the presence of the Nazgûl strongly. That could only mean one: that Sauron’s bloodhound was about to enter the battle.

“Can you answer me a question?” asked Drizzt after a while, just to distract himself from that bad feeling. “Is Prince Bard truly the heir of King Brand? I thought Price Meilyr was the firstborn son.”

“He is,” replied Tuilindo with a shrug.

“Why is he not the heir, then?” asked Drizzt. “Was he born out of wedlock?”

“It would mean little to the Bardlings if he were,” said Tuilindo. “For them a son is a son, regardless of the circumstances of his birth. But Prince Meilyr is actually a legitimate son. His mother, Queen Meinwen, whose name means slender-and-white in the ancient tongue of the North, died in childbirth. Meilyr was but four when the King married the Lady Regath.”

“That still does not explain why Prince Bard is the heir to the throne and not Prince Meilyr,” said Drizzt.

“’Tis an old custom in Dale that always the youngest son is the one to inherit the crown,” explained Tuilindo. “This way, the heir to the throne has enough time to prepare himself for his future duties, while his elder brothers stand on his side, helping him in all they can.”

“That makes sense,” admitted Drizzt, “although the custom does seem a little strange.”

“Practices of mortal Men often do,” replied Tuilindo, and the two of them fell into companionable silence.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Three hours after nightfall the wind finally blew the last clouds from the sky. The moonlight washed the entire town and the surface of the Lake with silver, and in that silver light dark shadows could be seen moving towards the walls like a black wave, ready to swallow everything. Tuilindo, who had been singing softly under his breath, jumped to his feet.

“Sound the alarm!” he called up to the bugleman atop the Gate Tower. “They are about to launch a night attack!”

And, leaping off the wall, he ran to the barracks, shooting with all his might to wake the exhausted Men within.

Up in the Tower, the bugles brayed, and soon the drums downtown joined in, sounding the alarm. The Bell-Guard must have been awakened, too, for every single bell in the belfry was chiming and sounding frantically. The Gate Guards on duty swung into their saddles and rode through the town, hitting every door on their way with the pommel of their swords.

“There is going to be a night attack!” they shouted. “On your feet, all of you who can still wield a weapon!”

Among the half-charred, roofless houses, helmeted shapes with spears, axes, swords or whatever weapon they could have grabbed in their hurry, emerged on all sides. The craftsmen and peasant-labourers of the town lined up alongside the warriors, waiting for orders, armed as well as they could. All sensed that they were about to face their greatest trial of strength yet.

Outside, the bronze drums of the Easterlings began to rattle, too. The Khimmer troops poured into the trenches of the earthwork ramparts like water after a cloudburst. Gold-seamed red banners fluttered over that flood, the skull of the White Kine showing its teeth threateningly. The lesser jarls still alive – and their armoured bodyguards – seemed to wade through the flood of bodies as if fording a river. Their polished hauberks and helmets glinted in the light of the moon.

And behind them, discernible only as an icy cold patch of darkness within the shadows, the presence of the Nazgûl loomed ominously. It had not given any cry as yet, but the mere awareness of its presence filled people’s hearts with dread.

By midnight the Easterlings had surrounded the town in a half-circle, and when they were in position, a long-drawn wail came down the wind, a cry of such hatred and malevolence that if froze the blood in the defenders’ veins. It rose and fell, and ended on a high piercing note. Drizzt shuddered where he was standing on the wall. He had never heard the cry of a Nazgûl before; now he understood why no-one had been able to describe it to him, for how could have someone capture the sheer terror of it in mere words?

At this signal, the attackers began to throw fire-balls into the town in great numbers. Yells of _Okkor! Okkor!_ rose all around from thousands of throats, and the banners seemed to fly towards the walls. How they had been able to transport such a huge amount of weaponry Drizzt could not understand – unless they had hidden reserves all along their way, having prepared for this very battle for a very long time.

Inside the Gate and on top of the wall fires were kindled hurriedly, in several different places. The straw-rings and crosses and fire-balls crackled as they burst into fire. Hundreds of fiery rainbows fell in great, sparkling curves, singing and scorching everything they touched.

But the attackers moved forward with determination, climbing, pressing and pushing their way up onto the walls. The siege-ladders gripped quickly, and the Khimmer warriors ran up the ladders like squirrels. Up above the axes of the defenders clanged on the hooks of the ladders. Fire and stones rained down at the attackers.

“ _Okkor! Okkor_!“ bellowed the weapons masters of the jarls. “Forth, sons of the White Kine! Tonight, victory will be ours!”

Fortunately, the Dwarves had reached the most endangered places in the meantime, and were now going to work with a strength no mere Men could even dream of… and their strength was required, too. For no matter how many Khimmer warriors fell under their powerful strokes, there always were more coming. New ladders replaced the broken ones; new troops swarmed the ladders over the twitching bodies of the fallen.

The wall was so thickly packed with bodies that it no longer could be seen beneath them. The defenders prodded their spears through loopholes in the wall at the Easterlings who fell from the ladders like dropped stones, but they were quickly replaced by others. In their battle-rage, the Khimmer warriors did not even care to avoid the spears, trusting their luck that those would slide off their thick ox-hide jerkins or bronze hauberks harmlessly, instead of piercing their bellies. Six out of ten were not so fortunate and fell into the gap between ramparts and walls to their death. But the other four managed to avoid the defenders’ spears and reached the walls.

Below the walls, a large troop of Khimmer warriors went to work, systematically smashing and chopping the large oakwood gate wings, to force entrance into the town by breaking its Great Gate. From the inside, peasants came in a great hurry to support the Gate with heavy oak beams that had been ripped from the charred house roofs. Behind them, a dozen or so archers stood, arrows ready on their bowstrings, to shoot any Easterling that might come through, once the Gate was broken.

From above, fiery missiles rained down at the axemen, together with huge squared stones and whatever the defenders could lay hand of in their desperate need. They knew that should the Gate break, the town would be inevitably overrun, so they did their best to prevent that from happening.

“To the wall! To the wall!” cried Prince Meilyr, leaping onto it himself and brandishing a nine-foot pike.

Huge squared stones, taken from a charred house nearby and dragged to the wall, were tossed at the Easterlings, sweeping them off the ladders and crushing them as they rolled on the ground. But arrows and stones were flying, too. Prince Meilyr had blood streaming from the visor of his helmet without him noticing it.

“My Prince!” one of the knights called to him. “Are you injured?”

“’Tis nothing,” answered the young prince, wiping the blood from his eye and whirling around to assess the situation. “Bring fire! More fire!” And with his iron-booted leg, he swept the embers from a fire onto the Easterlings wallowing on the ground.

But many defenders also fell from the walls – some into the town, some outside where they were slain immediately and savagely. Yet there was no time to see who had died. As one fell, another leaped into his place there and hurled stones and burning straw-rings down with their bare hands, ‘til the siege-ladders filled again, and the desperate defenders attacked the Easterlings who reached the wall with axes and pikes.

The struggle at the Gate Tower was, once again, perhaps the fiercest. There King Brand himself was in charge of the defence. When the Khimmer warriors had penetrated the fiery rain of flaming arrows and burning rings of straw, he ordered beams to be brought up and laid on the wall, sweeping the attackers off it with them.

That caused a short pause in the struggle, thus the King jumped onto his horse to make a quick survey along the defence line. He found that the attack had ceased at the small watchtower on the north-western corner of the wall, so he sent the soldiers there over to the Gate tower to help, for he knew that the new wave of attack would be launched there in any moment.

Unfortunately, the Easterlings, too, had noticed that the north-western tower was now more or less undefended, so they set ladders up there once more, as soon as the King had left. At first just one or two, then ten or fifteen. As neither stone nor fire fell on them from that position, they began to climb with all speed. They would have got above the wall unnoticed, had Master Aeddan, who was coming to see what resources the guards of that tower might need, not turned round in that very moment – right into the reddened face of a stocky Khimmer warrior.

“Smoke and spiders!” cursed the wiry old man, grabbing for the pike of a fallen warrior and, whirling its blunt end upwards, he struck the Easterling with all his strength. He proved stronger than he looked; the Easterling and half a dozen of his companions well off the ladder from the force of the impact.

“Over here! Quickly!” yelled Master Aeddan, thrusting at the Easterlings on a second ladder.

His son, Drudwas, head scribe of the King’s House and not the most warrior-like man in Dale by far, was the first to run to his aid; he hurled a broken counting table into the face of the first Khimmer warrior he could reach. The only remaining guard of the small tower ran for help. Within moments, Sir Geraint, the husband of Princess Branwen, galloped by on horseback, his shining armour glittering in the firelight like pure silver. Following him were two other knights of the court, the brethren Cadwallon and Cadwaladr, and with them came a dozen peasants, carrying straw-rings and fire-pots to throw them down on the attackers.

Drizzt’s attention was drawn there for a moment. He could see that the Easterlings were gathering there in increasing numbers; and there were still no armed soldiers other than the three knights over there. The peasants did not even have helmets or breastplates, and several of them had fallen already, hit by arrows or hurled stones.

‘Twas not good, not good at all!

“They need Dwarves over there,” said Drizzt to Tuilindo.

“Go and fetch some, then!” replied the other Elf, fighting with a long knife in each hand like a dancing whirlwind. “I can hold out here on my own for a while.”

Drizzt nodded and slid down the wall onto the palisade behind it, and then ran down the wooden staircase to the ground level. He knew where to find the Dwarves. They were staying with the weapon-smiths of Dale, whom they had befriended many years ago, in the barracks.

Right now, there were but a few there, those who had come to find replacements for their notched weapons. Yngvi son of Frár, a large IronFist in the spiked armour of a Forge Guard, looked at the Drow in askance.

“North-western watchtower,” said Drizzt curtly. “It could be taken any moment now; there are no armed soldiers.”

The Dwarves nodded and moved on with a speed no-one would have expected from their short, heavy forms. Drizzt hurried after them.

By the time when they reached the tower, the wall was crawling with Easterlings. One of the knights, Sir Cadwaladr, had already been slain, his head almost completely severed from his neck above the collar of his hauberk. ‘Twas a grotesque sight as he lay there, his body broken, his head bending in an unnatural angle to the side, his lifeless eyes wide open and glassy. He could not have been much older than thirty in Drizzt’s estimate.

So many promising young Men had died already. So many would die yet, ere this battle was over.

Not only the young had given their lives in the defence of their town, though. Drizzt saw Master Aeddan slumped on the wall like a sack beside the tower. Four arrows had hit him in the narrow chest, and his grey head was drenched with his own blood from a vicious sword strike. There was no way he could have survived _that_ – and at his advanced age, too. 

Drizzt felt a murderous rage rising in his heart, seeing the kind old Man, slain like cattle. Aeddan had not even worn armour or a helmet. He had never been a warrior. He should have spent the autumn of his life in peace, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

Alas, fate rarely gave good, honest Men what they truly deserved.

Dawn was now breaking, as the Dwarves emerged from the palisade and pressed up onto the wall like a tidal wave. Yngvi son of Frár came first, with a razor-sharp double-axe in one hand and a broadsword in the other one, both too heavy for any strong Man to lift, chopping at ladders and Easterlings on both sides. A large, bearded Khimmer warrior tried to run him over with a broadsword face-on; he evaded the attack with the swiftness of a striking cobra and rammed his helmeted head, spikes and all, into the Man’s face. Another one he impaled through the chest with the long, deadly spikes worn on the shoulder part of his breastplate. A third one he kicked in the groin with his iron-spiked boot viciously, making him sweep the ladder behind.

“Baruk Khazâd!” he roared like a lion. “Khazâd ai-mênu!”

“ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” yelled the Easterling below.

His fellow Dwarves went to work with the same force and ferocity, and the wave of the attack broke. Seeing that he was not needed at the moment, Drizzt gathered up the broken body of Master Aeddan to take it to the Healing House. There was no help for the old Man, he knew, but there was still a little life in him, and he deserved to die in bed, with as little pain as possible.

Annlaw ap Math wept as he took the steward’s body from the Dark Elf. He and Aeddan had been second cousins and also good friends for a lifetime. The only thing that comforted him a little was the fact that he could be with the dying man in his last moments.

“Does his son know yet?” he asked.

Drizzt nodded. “They were fighting side by side.”

The elderly healer wiped his eyes. “That is good,” he said. “Great as Mistress Briavael’s grief will be, to know that their son was with him in his last struggle might be some consolation. I thank you for bringing him to me, Master Elf. At least he will die in peace.”

“Such peace as there could be amidst of a siege,” answered Drizzt, bowing to the old Man, and returned to the Gate Tower. The Dwarves would take good care of the other endangered position. Of that he had no doubt.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He found that the attack on the Gate Tower had stopped for the moment. Several dozen Mordvin slaves had been whipped into a line in front of the tower, carrying skins filled with water, and were now awaiting their fates in dull obedience.

“I assume they are here to douse the fire as soon as it touches someone,” said Tuilindo to Prince Meilyr.

The young Prince shrugged. “Let them come!” he said. “They will not be able to carry up water quickly enough.”

“I fear they have something else in mind,” said Drizzt, watching with suspicion the gathering crowd below. The Easterlings still had not launched another attack with siege-ladders – and that was deeply odd. They _had_ to be up to something.

The defenders assembled on the wall, watching the enemy warily. Unexpected actions never meant anything good, they had already learned that much. And indeed, there was a sudden movement down below. Previously hidden bows were brought forth, and hundreds of hands released stones, aimed at the men on the walls. One stone caught Tuilindo on the head, but fortunately, his thick mane of ash blond hair, twisted in a topknot out of his face, lessened the impact.

“Are you hurt?” asked Drizzt in concern.

“’Tis nothing,” replied the archer, despite the thin rivulets of blood running down one side of his fair face. He swayed but for a moment, then he shouted at his own people. “What are you waiting for? Take out their archers; but mind the stones!”

The Elven archers lost no time to follow his orders. They released flamed arrows at the Khimmer archers _behind_ the line of the water-carriers. Unlike Man-made weapons, their Elven bows carried far enough to take the enemy’s bowmen out – that brought the attacking troops to a surprised halt.

But only for a moment. The slave-drivers in the rear shouted “Forward!”, and the water-filled skins hissed as they quenched the scattered fires in clouds of steam, preparing a safe path for the warriors who were already pressed forth.

“Throw stones!” shouted Prince Meilyr, and peasants, warriors and even knights alike tore more of the huge, squared stones from the ruined house nearby. Yet the prince did not allow them to hurl those stones just yet. He planned to wait ‘til the attackers were densely packed on the ladders again.

The Easterling army advanced anew to the yells of _“Okkor!”_ like the roars of a thousand fighting white kine bulls, the braying of horns and rattle of brass drums. A forest of ladders approached the walls, and now the jarls themselves, flanked by their elite guard, led the attack.

A huge jarl in elaborate bronze armour swept forward, holding an enormous battle-axe and twirling it in his hand as if it were an eating knife. In his other hand he bore the standard of the White Kine. His russet beard, generously mixed with grey, covered the upper part of his broad chest like a fine, wavy curtain.

Prince Meilyr stepped forth to meet him with the point of his pike. “Siltric Silkbeard, I presume?” he asked coldly. “Well met indeed, as the Elves would say – for you will meet your death today.”

“Vermin!” spat the Khimmer and swung his great axe to split the young prince in two.

He was incredibly fast, and he would have succeeded but for a scimitar thrown from behind the prince. The razor-sharp blade caught him just above the collar of his breastplate, but the fabulously thick beard of which he was named made it slide off with barely any damage caused. Strangely enough, though, the huge Man swayed on his feet, glared at his much slimmer opponent in surprise – then he fell off the ladder, dead.

“Men talk too much in battle,” commented Drizzt, snatching up his scimitar ere it could have been damaged by the trampling feet.

But Prince Meilyr shook his head. “Thankful as I am for your move, Master Elf, that was odd. You have not hit him hard enough to lose his footing like this.”

Drizzt shrugged. “We should not question our good fortune, my Lord Prince. There are still more than enough left, for both of us.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The great struggle raged on ‘til the third hour of the day. Then, on all sides, the Easterlings withdrew wearily from beneath the walls. There were hundreds of them, dead and wounded, lying all around the town. Groans and pitiful cries of dying men with broken bones could be heard from all directions.

The town was filled with dead and wounded, too. The walls and platforms were red with blood inside. Everyone was stained with blood, sweating, dirty, ragged and red-eyed. Women carried the dead and the wounded, for most men were too weary to raise an arm. They slumped to the ground wherever they could find enough room and fell into exhausted sleep.

The King let them rest as well as they could under the circumstances. They would be needed on the walls again soon enough, mayhap as soon as before dusk; of that he was certain. He only ordered as many men to sentry duty as were needed to see that each watchtower would be occupied. He would not be caught by the enemy unawares.

The captains, however, were not allowed to rest just yet. Ere they could have even washed, they were called in the King’s presence to give him the customary reports.

“I have got sixty-four dead and seventy-six seriously wounded,” reported Prince Meilyr, responsible for the swordsmen, pressing a wet cloth against the sword-cut on his head. He had not yet found the time to have it cleaned and stitched.

“Thirty dead, one hundred and twenty-one wounded,” reported Tudur ap Bledri for the spearmen and axemen. “We shall have to strengthen the Gate this afternoon though, Sire. The wings have been weakened, and if the Easterlings bring a ram…” he trailed off, but there was no need to say more. Everyone knew what the breaking of the Gate would mean.

“Twenty-two dead, fifty-three wounded,” reported Ieuan ap Ifor. “We need to gather all Easterling arrows shot into town. They are not as good as ours, but we need them, or we will run out of arrows.”

“What about the fire-balls?” asked the King.

“We have confiscated all the small earthenware pots that we could find in the potters’ workshops,” replied Drudwas ap Aeddan who had taken over his father’s stewardly duties. “The Dwarves are helping us to make the fire within ignite easier at impact. But they will not last forever.”

“The pots do not need to be fired for this to work,” added one of the Dwarves, "but even drying them in the sun would take days.”

“We do not _have_ days,” said the King grimly. “Use up everything we have to hit them as hard as we can.”

Drudwas ap Aeddan nodded. “As you wish, Sire.”

The King then turned to Tuilindo. “How are your people doing, Master Elf?”

“Four of them have been slain by arrows,” replied the Elf, “and we have seven wounded. Not too badly, though; and we Elves heal quickly. They will be able to bend their bows by nightfall again, I deem.”

“What about you?” asked Prince Meilyr. “You, too, have been wounded.”

Tuilindo shrugged. “Hit by a stone. I will live. The dizziness is inconvenient, but I hope it will be over, soon.”

“We have lost Skafi, Bivör and Herger,” said Dáin Ironfoot. “We have a few wounded, too, but nothing serious; mostly small cuts and bruises. Nonetheless, we must take all the newly wounded to Erebor, and then collapse your tunnels. We cannot wait with that any longer.”

“No; I, too, fear we cannot,” said King Brand. “We must not provide the enemy with a quick path to Erebor. Alas for our beautiful halls; but lives are more important.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Meanwhile Drizzt was visiting the Healing House, only to learn that Master Aeddan had indeed died a short time earlier. His sobbing wife was being comforted by Mistress Helydd, the healer’s wife, and by a young woman who looked so much like the late steward that she could only be his daughter. Drizzt hesitated, not certain whether it would be proper to disturb their grief, when a young man, big and broad, with a strong likeness to the steward’s wife, came to greet him.

“I am Bened ap Aeddan, Master Elf,” he said quietly. “I wanted to thank you for bringing my father here. It means a great deal for my mother and my sister that he could die with dignity.”

“What are you doing with the dead?” asked Drizzt. “There are so many… and you cannot get to your burial place, can you?”

“Oh but we can,” replied Bened ap Aeddan. “You see, Master Elf, our burial place is an abandoned salt mine, deep under the earth, in a hidden place no-one knows. The dead are brought there through the tunnels and laid to rest. During the years, salt crystals settle on the bodies, encrusting them with a thin layer of salt and keeping them undamaged. This is how we have buried our dead from the beginning, save for the time of the Dragon’s terror, and there shall we wait in the company of our longfathers for the re-making of Arda.” He gave the Drow a meaningful look. “Should you die and I live, I will see that you be given a place among us. For you have come to our aid from afar and have no kin to give your the Last Honour.”

“I am honoured already,” said Drizzt, and indeed, he was deeply touched. These people barely knew him, and yet they would be willing to accept him among them for eternity; such thing had never happened to him in his past life. “I hope, though, that we both will live to give the Last Honour to your father, and indeed to all the others who have fallen in defence of your town.”

“I wish it would be so,” replied the young Man, according to his soot-smeared forearms and leather apron most likely a blacksmith, thoughtfully. “But we must not lie to ourselves. Unless the Dwarves get here in time, none of us will leave Dale alive.”

“We can always retreat to Erebor,” said Drizzt. “King Dáin has offered the safety of his kingdom to everyone here.”

“We could,” agreed Bened ap Aeddan, “but we shall not. Not as long as there is another choice.”

“King Brand said that houses can be rebuilt while lives cannot,” said Drizzt, “and I find that I agree with him. Dale means more than the artfully carved stones of which it was built. ‘Tis also all the people who live within its walls. As long as you are here, you can always rebuild the town. But when you are all dead, that would mean the end of Dale, for ever.”

“That is true,” said the young Man, “but we are not ready to give up Dale just yet. Not as long as our arms are still strong enough to wield any weapon.” He touched the Drow’s shoulder lightly. “Stay with us for a while if you can, Master Elf. We shall sit wake with my father ere his body is brought to the final rest.”

After a moment of hesitation Drizzt accepted the proffered seat at the deathbed of Master Aeddan ap Cai, the late steward of Dale. He sat there with the family, listening to the songs of mourning, and felt strangely comforted. At least for this short time, he was not alone.

Down below, in the camp of the Easterlings, the funeral pyre of Siltric Silkbeard, late chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, was burning with a great flame.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, the Battle of Dale lasted from March 17-20, Third Age 3019. After that, the defenders were forced to retreat to Erebor and the town fell. Erebor was besieged for five days, while finally on 25 March 3019 the Ring was destroyed and Sauron defeated. On that day, the new Kings, Bard II son of Brand and Thorin III Stonehelm, lifted the siege and beat the Easterlings for good.  
> Now, since Drizzt’s presence already makes this story a little AU, I have decided to follow an alternate route. Do not be surprised if some things turn out differently – they are intended to happen so.  
>  _Stangasyando_ – albeit with slightly different spelling – is a sword-name in Primitive Elvish and means “thong-cleaver”. Name found on the Ardalambion website.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 17**

The sun, as it peered over the mist, looked down on a half-empty, charred town, splattered with blood and filth and smeared with soot. Here and there burning beams were still smouldering, and smoke rose from some of the oil-filled barrels. The stench of death and rubbish filled the air.

Down below the funeral pyres of the Easterlings were still burning. They had burned all day – there were so many dead bodies that they had to pile them over each other like firewood. Only the fallen jarls had got their own pyres. The black, oily smoke of the pyres clouded the sky. There would be no slave girls left to be slain for the burial rites after the next attack.

The defenders had also cleared away their dead. The peasants and women collected them on stretches and carried them to the abandoned salt mine, where they were laid to rest, with respect but without any ceremony. There would be time for that later – if anyone lived to see that day.

Drizzt had been honoured with an invitation to escort Master Aeddan on his last journey. He accepted, naturally; doing otherwise would have been a grave insult towards the grieving family. Thus he became perhaps the only outsider – aside from certain Dwarves – to see the most sacred place of the Men of Dale.

‘Twas more than just a salt mine. ‘Twas a meandering chain of interconnected caves, encrusted with salt crystals. They had been carefully excavated (most likely by Dwarven hands) to cavernous underground halls, and each family had its own crypt: a cave in which the members of the clan had been laid to rest for uncounted generations. The age of the bodies could be guessed by the thickness of the layers of salt crust that covered them.

Master Aeddan was laid to his forefathers: his father Cai and his fathers and grandfathers before him. The men were buried with ceremonial daggers that they had been given during the ceremony of the Second Honour, as they called the coming of age, the women with a small spindle of gold, silver, bronze or brass, depending on the wealth of their families. No other riches were laid next to them. Drizzt found great dignity in that fact.

When they returned through the secret tunnels to the besieged town, there was some movement among the Easterlings again. The pyres had burned down, leaving naught but scorched earth and a pile of ash in their wake, and the Khimmer warriors were assembling to storm the town anew. Still-unblooded troops, carrying unspoiled red standards, were coming down from the distant hills. As soon as they were all assembled, they would attack the battered town with all their might.

After the big battle, the men had been allowed to sleep long and deep. Only those peasants who had not taken part of the fighting were ordered to work. The stone-masons, with the help of the Dwarves, smoothed down the parapet of the walls in the most frequented places, so that the siege-ladders might not grip them so easily. Cauldrons from the kitchens were carried onto the walls and filled with what pitch was still available. Fires were kindled to melt the pitch and heat oil and water. Straw rings, crosses and hurriedly manufactured fire-balls were piled up on the wall at regular distances. They prepared everything they had.

All knew this would be the last attack – one way or another. Either the Dwarves of the Iron Hills arrived before nightfall, or they would have to give up the town… or die, every single one of them.

The King had ordered the butchers to slaughter the best cattle for the men. There was beef stew for everyone for midday meal; one of the oxen was even roasted on the spit. The freshly baked bread was carried out onto the square in the middle of the barracks, for everyone to take as much as they wanted. ‘Twas the best, finest white bread, too; the sort that usually only went to the table of the King himself, his knights and his noblemen. Barrels of the best wines from the King’s own cellar were opened and offered to the men to strengthen their hearts.

‘Twas like a funeral feast, held in advance. For they could not know if there would be any left to say farewell to the fallen after the upcoming attack.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt had been invited to the King’s own table, together with Tuilindo, King Dáin, Gunnar Otirsson and the Dwarves Thekk, Dori and Yngvi. There King Dáin finally revealed the news he had received by way of the ravens during the night attack.

“Our cousins from the Iron Hills have been delayed,” he said grimly. “It seems that the Easterlings had indeed called in reinforcements. The ravens say that an army, assembled from the warriors of several small tribes, has also been on its way there; an army less numerous than that of Siltric Silkbeard, but not by much. Our cousins have encountered them about a day’s journey from here. When the ravens left to bring us word, the battle was still going on.”

King Brand became deathly pale upon hearing those tidings. “Can we hope that they might still arrive in time?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation Dáin Ironfoot shook his head in regret.

“I do not think so,” he said. “And yet we might not have to face our enemies entirely without help tonight. For the ravens also say that ships filled with armed Men are rowing up the Lake from Esgaroth. It seems that young Leifdall Thorleifsson could persuade many of his townspeople to come to our aid, after all.”

“Bless him,” said Gunnar Otirsson, smiling at the thought of his friend’s bravery. “I doubt that he would bring enough men, though.”

“’Tis not always the numbers that decide the outcome of a battle, ‘tis more often a steadfast heart,” said the Dwarf. “We shall hold the town as long as we can. But even if we are forced to retreat to Erebor, we shall do so but for a short time. We shall return and drive out the enemy as soon as help arrives.”

“Mayhap if the Easterlings learn that their reinforcements have been attacked by the Dwarves they will give up the siege,” said Drudwas ap Aeddan hopefully.

Thekk, the Dwarf with the horned helmet, shook his head. “Nay they will not. They are driven by more than just greed; they are driven by vengeance. They will not cease ‘til we are dead – or _they_ are.”

“Even if they would be willing to give up, the Nazgûl would never allow them to do so,” added Yngvi son of Frár. “It has orders from the Dark Lord to destroy Dale – and Erebor as well, most likely. It will go on as long as it has any men to command.”

“It worries me that the Nazgûl has not entered the battle yet,” admitted King Brand. “It must be planning something – something we will _not_ like, for certain.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The King of Dale was right; more so than he could have guessed. The Nazgûl was planning something indeed, and it was planning to handle it quickly. It had not been present in the battle of the previous night, after all, even though it had intended to do so. But messengers had arrived right after the beginning of the night attack, and not just any messengers but _Crebain_ from Dunland.

These wild and malevolent birds usually served as Saruman’s spies, for the White Hand of Isengard fed them well indeed. But the bloody battles fought in Rhovanion had drawn quite a few swarms of them to the North, and on their way they saw much. Long accustomed to the dread presence of Sauron’s servants, they had then come to the Nazgûl with word of the things they had seen, hoping for an opulent meal after the battle.

The Nazgûl had been most displeased to hear that his reinforcements would be delayed. None of the Nine had counted on the Dwarves of the Iron Hills learning about the Easterling campaign and coming to Dale and Erebor’s aid so swiftly. And Vestri, King of the Iron Hills, had a _very_ large army. Their intervention could have seriously endangered the Nazgûl’s plans – unless the Easterlings managed to take Dale within the next day.

At least Hrothulf Jarl, chieftain of the Tribe of the White Wolf, and his fellow barbarians had saved them from being caught by the Iron Hills Dwarves unawares. With a little luck, they would massacre each other so that neither of them could tip the balance of power between the defenders and the attackers of Dale.

It was a balance the Nazgûl intended to tip itself that night. It would enter the battle tonight, releasing the Black Breath over the defenders, filling their hearts with paralysing fear, and then the Khimmer warriors would overrun the town.

It held back so far, allowing great numbers of battle-mad Khimmer warriors to be slain on the walls. The Tribe of the White Kine had grown too strong, too numerous, too… belligerent in recent times. Culling the heard was always… educational when one had to deal with mortals that thought they had the choice to obey or reject Sauron’s orders.

 _No-one_ had that choice. No-one who intended to stay alive.

But the game had gone on far too long. The Nazgûl was no longer… _entertained_ by the fighting. ‘Twas time to finally reach their goal. Once Dale was taken and destroyed, they could besiege Erebor and wait for the troops of Dol Guldur to join them.

The news about the Lakemen sending volunteers to Dale’s aid – word about _that_ had come from the grovelling water goblins – worried the Nazgûl not in the least. Those were but a handful Men; they would be crushed easily. Nay, the only possible threat were the Dwarves – on both sides – and the Nazgûl wanted that threat gone. It wanted Dale conquered and levelled, so that the Easterling troops could keep Erebor besieged ‘til the forces of Dol Guldur had finished destroying Thranduil’s realm and could come to help conquering the Kingdom Under the Mountain, too.

There was no-one like Orcs if one wanted to fight Dwarves, brutal and stupid creatures though they might be. Even if Angmar had not succeeded in raising an army of Dark Elves from that different plane of existence – not _yet_ in any case – the Nine still had vast armies at their disposal; armies that they could use to see the Dark Lord’s orders carried out. One way or another, Erebor would fall.

But their first duty was now the destruction of Dale. The Nazgûl sent a mental order to call its winged stead and prepared to release the full terror of its presence. Until now, it had held back, keeping the Black Breath tightly wrapped around itself like a cloak. Now it unfolded the great wings of terror, knowing it would drive the Easterlings forth with more efficiency than any whips or barked orders could have done.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt and Tuilindo had returned to their usual watchpost near the Gate Tower. Down below, the Easterlings were still gathering. All around was a moving forest of spears and pikes and battle-axes. The enemy was flooding around the town like Ekkaia, the Encircling Sea – or that was what Tuilindo said, in any case, as Drizzt had little to no knowledge about the shape of Middle-earth.

Their keen Elven eyes could make out the new chieftain of the enemy: ‘twas a young giant compared with the others, sitting on a tall, raw-boned horse. He wore a well-made bronze breastplate over his chain-mail shirt and an elaborate helmet. The heavy broadsword hung in a beautifully crafted scabbard from his sword-belt; its pommel stone was a sapphire of the size of an egg.

Around him other mounted warriors gathered; by their rich clothes and elaborate armour most likely the other surviving jarls. All seemed much older than he, save a few valkyrie who probably did not have long lives as a rule. The rest were all on foot, except a small group of dark-skinned, white-eyed Men who rode small and agile horses, barely large than ponies. These were all archers, carrying white bows made of the great, curved horn of some unknown beast, and wore hooded jerkins of dark wool.

The banner they carried stood out from the red-and-gold ones of the Easterlings. ‘Twas entirely black, with a disturbingly strange image in the middle of it. The image looked like the full Moon but was distorted into the likeness of a skull.

“That is the banner of Minas Morgul, the main fortress of the Nine,” said Tuilindo grimly. “The Nazgûl will enter the battle today. Unfolding the banner of its dread Captain means the death of every soul in town. There will be no prisoners taken.”

“I would prefer death to be captured by _that_ ,” replied Drizzt, gesturing vaguely in the direction from which the presence of the Nazgûl now could clearly be felt. “But what sort of people are those archers? I have not seen Men like them since my arrival in Middle-earth.”

“They are rarely seen in the North,” said Tuilindo. “They live in the far South, in a land called Far-Harad. They are said to be the best archers the race of Men has ever raised, thus the Dark Lord sometimes orders a few of them to join the northern armies. ‘Tis also said they eat their slain enemies, although I cannot tell whether _that_ is true or not.”

Drizzt shivered as he watched the strange Men waiting with the patience of snakes. They seemed so small, almost fragile compared with the big, brawny Easterlings… Yet in their white eyes glittered such malevolence that it could have put any Drow to shame. Fortunately, there were only a dozen or so of them. But the fact that they had been held back so far made Drizzt suspect that they could cause far greater damage than their modest looks would suggest.

As the Sun had begun to sink behind the Misty Mountains in the West, the brass drums began to rattle among the Easterlings. Great war horns brayed, and the walls trembled from the _Okkor! Okkor!_ cries rising from thousands of Khimmer throats.

The final attack that would decide the fate of Dale was just about to begin.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
King Brand had ordered all the peasants, women and other refugees to the cauldrons on the walls. Even some of the wounded had refused to be taken to Erebor, insisting that – if naught else – they could still pass on shouted orders and calls. Some of them were too weak to stand straight; those sat by a pile of wood and pushed pieces of it under the cauldrons from time to time with their feet.

All eyes were on the King on this day, more so than on any other day of the siege. He showed them the simple bravery needed to face the overwhelming strength of these barbarians. ‘Twas his will that pervaded everyone. He taught them caution, made them don armour, breastplate and helmet. But when the enemy stormed the walls, he fought in the first row, leading the defenders without fear – or favour. His firstborn son, his pride and joy, was the same. The folk of Dale draw strength from their presence.

Drizzt dreaded what might happen should either of them fall.

As if receiving some secret order, the sea of Khimmer warriors suddenly moved forward. The dark waves of that murderous sea flooded the walls from all directions. Fire-balls and flaming arrows flew in abundance from both sides. The smoke from their fires obscured the entire place like winter fog; so thick that it was impossible to see three steps ahead.

Within moments, the fighting broke out along the full length of the wall. The forces of the defenders were stretched so thin that it remained for the women to boil the water, pitch and lead down below and then carry them swiftly to the soldiers as they boiled.

On their way back they picked up the wounded to have them brought by the younglings to the healers and the barbers. As the Easterlings became more and more maddened with bloodlust, so were the injures more terrible by the minute. Soon all barbers were busy, and Master Annlaw was forced to offer the hopeless cases the chance for a quick and merciful death: a draught laced with spider venom that would kill them within twenty heartbeats. Quite a few of those who had lost a limb and were slowly bleeding to death accepted his offer with gratitude, and the old man held their hand during their last breath and wept as he closed their eyes.

So many young men whose lives had been cut short ere they could have truly lived! Most of them he had helped into the world, he or his wife. Dale was a small realm, a healer came to know most people. For Master Annlaw, these were not just casualties, mere numbers on a long list of losses; they were people for him, with a history behind them and a family that would mourn them – hopes that had been cut short ere they could have bloomed in earnest. That he had to end all those promising lives broke his heart.

At the Gate Tower murderous hand-to-hand struggles ensued. Drizzt himself was wrestling with a huge Khimmer jarl whose bones alone must have weighed a hundred pounds if not more. He knew he had to finish the Man quickly, for he was at a disadvantage where physical strength was considered. He tried to push the Man backwards, but the Easterling dug in his feet. For a moment they stared at each other with unveiled hatred, then Drizzt quickly ducked the Man’s sword-stroke, grabbed the giant by the throat and jerked him inside with a twist, throwing him down from the wall into the yard.

The Easterling, however, had a lucky fall, landing upon several of his already dead comrades without as much as a broken bone. He struggled to his feet and turned around, his broadsword still in hand, to see whom he could slay next.

One of the women working at the cauldrons spotted him though, and with a shriek, she picked up the sword of a fallen warrior – she could barely raise it with both hands – and ran with billowing skirts to intercept him. A sweet-faced, grey-haired lady of middle age, she had likely never learned how to wield a sword, but her wide whisk proved lucky, and the Easterling’s head broke away from his shoulders under its terrible blow. The woman glared down at the now headless warrior with a bleak face, then climbed up the palisade to the wall, despair and hatred giving her the unexpected strength to raise the heavy sword again.

It took Drizzt a moment to recognize Mistress Briavael, the widow of Master Aeddan – a fine and gentle soul who had never before wielded anything more dangerous than a pair of fine scissors to cut the thread after her embroidery had been finished. She was a Master Embroiderer by trade, had spent a lifetime creating things of great beauty – now she had been turned into an angel of death. Drizzt could not help but mourn her loss of innocence more than the loss of her husband. Goodwives like her were not meant to mete out death.

But other women came up in her wake, too, bringing the blazing pitch, stones and lead that the soldiers could not take from them in all the fighting. Thus they carried up this all themselves, and in the smoke, dust and flames tipped them on the Easterlings as these climbed up. They had no concern for their own safety. No-one was more important than their homes.

The dead fell down, yet the living kept coming on in ever larger numbers. The rolling stones, the shower of pitch and lead cleared a path on the crowded wall from time to time, but as if driven by some collective madness, the Easterlings just kept coming. In fact, the mount of dead bodies made it easier for the fresh troops to climb up there. The living snatched the red-gold banners from the dead as they fell backwards, and once again the skull of the White Kine could be seen dancing and gritting its teeth on the ladders.

“ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” bellowed the Khimmer warriors, their eyes bloodshot and their voices hoarse. “We are winning! Victory is ours now!”

“Death is yours, filthy dogs of Sauron!” thundered the Dwarves, twirling their great axes and killing a Man with every single blow. “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”

But the defenders were using up their last resources, and Drizzt knew they would not be able to hold out much longer. He could see King Brand, fighting at his side like a demon. The blood ran down the King’s gleaming armour from shoulder to heel, but he was still moving with the easy grace of a well-trained fighter.

Not his own blood, then. Good.

Mistress Briavael was raining blow after blow upon the advancing Easterlings with her borrowed sword, despair driving her with astonishing force – ‘til at last a spear-thrust caught her in the breast. The sword slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers; she clutched the wound and swayed, falling from the wall. There was no-one left to pull her away. The battle was raging on the top of the wall. The living trampled over the dead and the dying. Few of the wounded would have the chance to be saved afterwards, on either side.

All of a sudden, a great shadow fell over the battlefield, as if a black cloud had veiled the setting Sun, and icy fear descended upon the hearts of Men and even Dwarves, some nameless terror that robbed them all hope and numbed their hands. Many of the Men could not bear it and threw themselves to the ground, holding their ears with both hands as the long, piercing wail of the Nazgûl sounded above them.

“The Nazgûl has finally entered the battle,” said someone, and only now did Drizzt realize that Tuilindo had come up to his side in the raging of the battle. To his surprise, the other Elf was holding his great bow, ready to shoot.

“Can arrows do any harm to ghost flesh?” he asked.

“Nay, they cannot,” replied Tuilindo calmly, laying an arrow that had a _mithril_ head and was fletched with white swan feathers onto his bowstring. “But I can slay its steed, so that it would be forced to face us on the ground, at even terms… well, as even as they can be when you have to fight a Nazgûl. Watch!”

As he raised his bow, the great shadow was falling rapidly, and now Drizzt could see that it was no cloud but some kind of winged creature that seemed as if it had been born from the unlikely mating of a carrion bird and a serpent. For it was grater than all birds that Drizzt had ever seen, even in his former life in Faerûn where all kinds of strange monsters inhabited the surface world, and it was naked. Neither scales nor feather did it bear, and its vast, leathery wings were as if he had some kind of hide between horned fingers. Its long, naked neck had a row of dorsal spines, razor-sharp and cruel-looking like those of a dragon, and it ended in a beaked head, also crowned with horned spikes, and its bulging, yellow eyes glittered with malevolence. Its bent claws were razor-sharp, too, and large enough to tear a horse to pieces.

Upon it sat the Nazgûl: a huge and threatening shape, black-mantled and hooded. Under the hood the glint of a steel helmet could be seen, yet no face, just darkness, and in that darkness were dual red gleams where the eyes should have been. In its iron-gauntleted hand the Nazgûl held a longsword, too heavy for two Khimmer warriors to lift, yet there could be no doubt that for it the sword was no more difficult to handle than a knife.

In his morbid fascination Drizzt had all but forgotten about Tuilindo, thus he nearly jumped when the great Elven bow sang, right next to his ear. The _mithril_ arrow hit the fell beast of the Nazgûl unerringly in the chest, and with such force that the shaft buried itself into its flesh to the white feathers. The creature gave a croaked cry, half-pained and half-surprised, tumbled in the air and then fell like a dropped stone, smashing dozens of Easterlings to death under its heavy body.

The defenders cheered seeing the fell beast slain. For a moment, the attack stopped, the Easterlings as surprised by this turn of events as the defenders. No-one knew what to do, and the battlefield became eerily silent. Then the Nazgûl dismounted from its dead steed and cried out in some strange tongue that no-one understood, as if giving an order. At its call, the dark-skinned archers from Far Harad rode forth on their small horses. They raised their white bows and released a dozen arrows, all aiming at the same target.

Tuilindo, who had been watching the fall of the winged creature, dropped his bow. With a languid movement, he reached for his throat where he had been hit by three black-feathered Southron arrows. He staggered and slumped down on the wall, without moving a hand to break his fall.

Drizzt gave a great cry of anger and grief and crouched down next to him. Tuilindo was still alive… barely.

“Leave me,” he whispered. “I am beyond help. Protect the King… the town…” And in a sudden flash of foresight, he added. “You are the key… ‘tis all up to you… I shall wait… for your return… as long as I can… Go!”

Drizzt nodded, kissed his brow and jumped off the wall to dart after King Brand who was already running down to the Gate.

“Sound the call for all mounted troops!” ordered the King the buglemen. “Prepare to open the Gate! We shall finish this, here and now!”

“Father!” protested Prince Meilyr. “’Tis madness!”

“Nay, my son,” said the King grimly. “I must try slaying the Nazgûl now, or else the strength of our enemies will hold on ‘til no-one of us is left. If I fail, lead the retreat to Erebor. Come with me, Master Elf,” he added, looking at Drizzt. “’Tis time for us to charge, even if it is the last thing we do in this life.”

And understanding that the very hour in which he would have to fulfil the reason he had been called to Middle-earth had finally come, Drizzt followed the King to the Gate.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When they reached ground level, the Gate Guards had already lined up, led by Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, who held his sword in his hale hand. A page led the King’s horse forth, but Lord Brand waved him away.

“There is no use to try beheading the Nazgûl,” he said. “My only hope is to thrust my sword through its foul heart and end its life…such as it is. Should I fail, ‘tis up to you, Master Elf,” he said, aiming his words at Drizzt who nodded.

“And to me,” added Dáin Ironfoot, stepping up to him. “You did not think I would allow you to face the foul creature without me at your side, did you? I have fought alongside your father and grandfather already… and alongside you, many times. I shall _not_ abandon you, now of all times.”

“And I am grateful for that,” King Brand replied with a smile. “No-one should enter a good fight without a Dwarf at his side.” Then he glanced up to the Gate Tower and nodded to the bugleman.

The man blew the signal for attack. The peasants removed the bolts from the Gate and tossed the heavy oak wings outwards. With great battle cries and a loud clattering of hooves, the Gate Guards galloped out, striking and hitting any Easterling that was reckless – or foolish – enough to stand in their way, clearing the path for their King and his fellow champions.

Out walked the King of Men, flanked by Dark Elf and Dwarf, and stared challengingly at the Nazgûl that was still standing next to its felled steed. He drew his great sword, the one forged in the long-gone Northern kingdom of Cardolan for the specific purpose of slaying the Witch-king of Angmar and his foul brethren, and called out in a clear, ringing voice.

“Well, then, foul slave of Darkness; it is now between you and me. You have hidden behind the backs of your pawns long enough. Come forth and face my sword if you are not the miserable coward you seem to be. You want my town? Come and fight me! For as long as I am alive, you shall not set foot in Dale.”

It required great courage – and not a small amount of despair – to provoke the Nazgûl like that. But King Brand knew his enemy. He knew that should the Nazgûl refuse to fight him, sword against sword, it would completely lose the respect of its Easterling troops. And no amount of terror could make a Khimmer warrior follow an unworthy leader.

The King also knew that as long as he fought the Nazgûl, the siege would stop. According to ancient Khimmer custom when the leaders of two armies fought a personal duel, the lesser warriors were not allowed to continue their fight. They would not give up on Dale in the unlikely case of the Nazgûl’s fall, but they would have to regroup and reconsider their strategy. At the very least, the King might win his people some time – time for reinforcements to arrive.

His reckoning proved true. Khamúl, it seemed, was still Easterling enough, despite the thousands of years spent in the Dark Lord’s service, to remember the customs of his former people. And since he could not afford to lose – Sauron had no tolerance for failure – he had not other choice than to accept the challenge.

Thus he came forth, holding his huge longsword in one gauntleted hand – and naught in the other one. In his overconfidence, he surely had not expected to need another weapon against a mere mortal. It seemed to Drizzt as if the Nazgûl grew steadily as it approached them, ‘til it seemed as huge as the very hills, and the King of Dale a fragile wooden doll with no chance to prevail. If the eerie silence all around them was any indication, the others must have perceived the same. Even the Khimmer warriors stood motionlessly, a curious mix of fear and respect etched into their rough faces.

“Foolish old Man!” hissed the Nazgûl with such hatred in its cold voice that it nearly froze the blood in their veins. “Do you truly believe you can stop me? I have watched your pathetic little game long enough. Now you all shall know fear, agony and death at its fullest.”

The faces of the defenders became ashen with mind-numbing terror, and many of them began to tremble uncontrollably. Yet not one of them would throw away his weapons or leave his watchpost. They held out, in spite of their stark terror, driven by the love for their home and by the simple bravery of their King.

Drizzt could not help but admire them. _All_ of them, but more than anyone else their King, this kind yet valiant Man, past his prime and yet unwavering in his strength and determination. The sheer terror of the Nazgûl’s presence paralyzed everyone, with the possible exception of the Dwarves who were not easily shaken on any plane of existence – and yet the King of Dale did not back off as much as a single step. This was his greatest moment in life – and, most likely, the end of it – and he knew it. He was determined to make his last battle meaningful.

The blade of Cardolan glittered eagerly in the reddish light of the settling sun. The red and gold serpents on its blade seemed to come alive, as if trying to frighten away the foe that was threatening their master. Drizzt found himself curious as to what kind of magic was infused into the steel of that blade – for it seemed to have a strange, wavy pattern that was in the metal itself rather than some kind of adornment – and what it might do in the right hand. Some blades were like that: naught more than good weapons in the hands of an ordinary warrior, yet transforming into a deadly tool of destruction if they found their true master.

Drizzt had the feeling that _Stangasyando_ , as he had heard the sword called earlier, was such a weapon. That in the right hands, no-one would be able to stand before its blade.

Yet there was no way to frighten the Nazgûl away, the dark, undead servant of Darkness, and in the next moment, the Ringwraith fell upon the King with the horrible force of a falling boulder. Its heavy longsword slammed down forcefully enough to cleave an ox in two; the King, already tired from the previous fighting in his confining armour, could barely avoid the strike. He whirled around, ducked, and slashed with _Stangasyando_ at his opponent’s abdomen where the short black hauberk did not protect it.

A cry full of anger and hatred, and mayhap even pain, proved that he had been successful in at least inflicting _some_ wound to the ghost flesh beneath. The Nazgûl might have been cold and impatient before – now it was truly maddened. Now the outcome of this particular duel had become personal. Only blades forged with the arts of long-gone Westernesse could cause its insubstantial body true harm – it had been a long, long time since it had truly experienced pain.

This one had definitely fulfilled the intent with which it had been forged – yet whatever wound it might have inflicted to the ghost flesh, it was not enough. It only made the Nazgûl truly angry and determined to kill its opponent swiftly and mercilessly. Raising the great sword again, this time with both hands, it swung into a new attack against the King.

Once again, King Brand managed to avoid the strike with a limber move no-one would have expected from a Man of his age and stocky build. He ducked, then made half a turn and delivered another quick, forceful blow, with the clear intention of cutting through the Nazgûl’s black armour and deep into the ghost flesh beneath. 

The enraged cry of the Nazgûl proved that the blow had been true again. Thus far, the King had wounded his undead opponent twice, without suffering as much as a scratch himself, which was an awesome feat. Friend and foe watched the unlikely duel with their mouths hanging open. No-one would have expected from the King to last longer than moments.

The Nazgûl attacked again, and the King blocked the blade of its longsword with the cross-guard of his own weapon. Grabbing the pommel with his free hand, he gave _Stangasyando_ the necessary momentum for a strong upward thrust, piercing the black armour for the third time in quick succession. An astonished murmur rose among the rows of the onlookers in face of the excellent swordsmanship of a mere mortal – and not even a young one at that.

But the Nazgûl had just begun to take its opponent seriously. With its greater strength and speed, it soon forced the King into defensive movements, and it became clear that the Man would be worn out in no time.

“We must help him!” Drizzt murmured to Dáin Ironfoot in a voice too low for mere Men to overhear.

The Dwarf-King shook his massive head. “We cannot,” he replied. “’Tis a fight between him and the Wraith; as long as they are duelling, the fighting stops. But if we interfere, the battle will continue at once.”

‘But he will be slain that way!” protected Drizzt.

King Dáin nodded. “Aye, that he will, and he knows it. But he is buying us – and the town – time. That is why he challenged the Wraith in the first place.”

“And when he falls?” asked Drizzt, for there was little to no chance for a different outcome.

The Dwarf looked at him gravely. “Then the fighting will begin anew. I shall defend his body ‘til my last breath, and you… you will have to take his place. Let him not die in vain.”

“I will do my best,” promised Drizzt.

Which seemed to become a necessity any moment now, as King Brand’s heroic efforts to exhaust the Nazgûl were failing. He still managed to make parries with the flat of _Stangasyando_ ’s blade and elicited a few more highly skilled reverse cuts upwards, after locking up the Nazgûl’s longsword with the cross-guard, his strength was visibly waning. Small wonder; he was fighting an enemy that could not grow tired. Mortal flesh was not made for that.

And indeed, the moment when the King inevitably faltered under the Nazgûl’s brutal onslaught finally came. He missed a step, leaving his left side uncovered, if only a heartbeat’s time. Yet that short wile was enough for his opponent to reach him. The hit was not clean, and the King’s Dwarf-made armour withstood it to a certain extent: it was dented, yet not pried open. But the sheer force of that strike shattered the bones in the King’s shoulder, numbing his arm.

Not the sword-arm, true. It mattered not, though. With only one good hand, he could not hope to exert enough strength to cut through the Nazgûl’s breastplate.

With a last, desperate effort, he swung _Stangasyando_ in a wide arc, aiming between the steel helmet and the breastplate’s collar – but in mid-strike, he was met by his opponent’s sword. This time the blade was thrust in a straight line and caught him on the side, cutting through the leather thongs with which his breastplate was fastened. Not even the mail-shirt made in Erebor, that he wore under the breastplate, could save him anymore.

He stepped back and faltered, blood seeping copiously from under his armour. With a weakened hand, he stretched out _Stangasyando_ to the Dark Elf, pommel first.

“You have promised…” he murmured, and before the mortified eyes of his subjects, he wavered and fell. He was dead ere he would hit the ground. The Nazgûl’s sword had reached his heart.

As if it had been a signal, the Khimmer warriors lurched forth, eager to tear his broken body to pieces in their battle madness. Snatching an item from a great fallen hero counted as a good luck charm among them, and they would not be denied. Behind the lines of his foot soldiers came Sigurrd Jarl, the new chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, desirous to take home the head of his chief enemy.

Drizzt, having caught the sword of Cardolan, glanced at Dáin Ironfoot in concern. Would the old Dwarf be able to withstand this wave of bloodthirsty warriors? They could not let these foul barbarians desecrate King Brand’s body, but would Dáin be enough?

“Go!” shouted the Dwarf, gripping the handle of his great double-axe with both hands. “Worry not about me, I shall protect him. You have more urgent things to do.”

Drizzt nodded – which was also a quick farewell to the noble Dwarf – and whirled around, facing the Nazgûl at last. _Stangasyando_ felt good in his hand; better than he had expected. While a longer, more rigid blade than the ones he was accustomed to wield, it was also surprisingly light, with a narrower than usual tip that enabled the wielder to make use of numerous thrusts and maneuvers. ‘Twas a sword of power and practical efficiency, with a good balance, and wielding it required an artistry most swordsmen – who were used to broadswords – would lack.

Fortunately for him, Drizzt had been trained in the use of all sorts of blades, which enabled him to recognize the strengths and weaknesses of any particular sword as soon as he held it in his hand. _Stangasyando_ had definitely been made for hacking, shearing cuts, delivered primarily from the elbow and the shoulder. Its excellent balance also made it well-suited for pommeling, as King Brand’s fighting style had shown earlier, and Drizzt, remembering that he had to pierce the Nazgûl’s heart in order to severe the bond between ghost flesh and malevolent spirit, was prepared to use the sword exactly for that.

He consciously shielded his mind from any outside influence – a most useful ability trained into him in his young years in _Melee Magthere_ – and allowed the Hunter to emerge. The primitive instincts that drove that second persona of his were invulnerable to mental manipulations, unless one walked into a large colony of _illithid_. In this state, the Nazgûl could not enter his mind – not without considerable effort, that is – and his reflexes became lightning-fast. His entire being was focused on one task only: to destroy his enemy.

He did not even realize that the fighting had flared up around him with renewed violence. He no longer heard the yelling and cursing of the soldiers on both sides, the pain-filled cries of the wounded, the braying of the bugles or the rattling of the drums. He felt no heat from the fires around him, no weariness in his limbs. In this decisive moment of his perhaps greatest fight, he performed the task only the greatest warriors were said to be capable of, and even those only in rare moments of great peril: he mentally merged with the sword, became one entity with it.

Mayhap the power forged into the blade two thousand years previously had something to do with the metamorphosis. Mayhap it answered to the faint traces of Drow magic still lingering within him. Mayhap it was simply the despair and determination that had thrown his inner gates wide open for _Stangasyando_ ’s power to enter his mind and bond with him.

Whatever the true reason might have been, he could feel the changes on a level that was beyond conscious thinking. He allowed the great sword to take control over him, becoming simply the force that moved it. There was a peculiar thrill to it - the feeling as if he had been freed from the confines of a body of mortal flesh and become the physical manifestation of sheer willpower.

People who watched his duel from the town walls would tell him later that all they could see was a blur of darkness down on the battlefield, as if two enraged black clouds were struggling for dominance among the blood and death and all the effluence of the battle. They would tell him that the only visible thing in that whirling maelstrom of blackness had been the long, narrow blade of _Stangasyando_ , gleaming coldly and flashing like lightning before a storm cloud.

Drizzt knew nothing of all this. He gave himself completely over to the guidance of the sword, barely registering the terror, which the Nazgûl now had released to full effect, at the far edge of his consciousness. He _was_ the sword now, and the sword knew no fear. His body leapt and ducked and whirled and parried without thought, as the sword demanded of him. From time to time, he had to block bone-rattling blows from the Nazgûl’s sword, yet it seemed as if that, too, was happening to someone else. He blocked, parried and avoided the next blow and counter-cut, without knowing that he had done so, locked with his enemy in a deadly dance of terrible grace only one of them could hope to emerge from unharmed… or, at the very least, alive.

He could not tell later whether their fight had lasted moments, hours or lifetimes. Time no longer existed, nor did physical limitations. He no longer was a being of flesh and blood; he was a weapon made of sea-steel, the last masterpiece of forgotten Númenórean art. He had a purpose and he would fulfil it – that was the only thing that counted.

Finally _Stangasyando_ found the long sought-after opening in the black armour of the Nazgûl and lurched forth. Supporting the sword’s pommel with his free hand, Drizzt threw his entire weight and all his strength into that single thrust… and he could feel that this time, the thrust was true. It had gone exactly where it was supposed to go: right into the Nazgûl’s heart.

He could feel the point of the blade cut through the breastplate and sink deeply into the ghost body beneath. A long, piercing cry rose from the throat of his enemy, engulfing him in a cloud of ice-cold darkness. It felt as if a dagger of ice would have pierced his heart, freezing the marrow in his bones.

Still clutching the hilt of _Stangasyando_ in his now cold and numb hand, Drizzt Do'Urden of the ancient house of _Daernon N'shezbaernon_ swayed and fell onto his defeated enemy. In his last conscious moment, he wondered briefly why all he could feel under him was an empty hauberk and the tattered folds of a heavy cloak.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The canon character deaths are not my doing, I swear.   
> The fire-tree _nargaladh_ is an invention of Dwimordene. It has oily bark that causes a burning feeling if touched. It is supposed to grow in Mirkwood alone. I have used it earlier with the owner’s consent, so I hope she won’t mind me using it again.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 18**

The fall of the Nazgûl by the hand of the black demon fighting on the side of the defenders stopped the attack again… but only for a moment. The Khimmer warriors fought for their own personal glory first and foremost, and having their uninvited ally out of the way was something that they actually welcomed. At least now they could fight as it was their wont, regardless of Mordor’s wishes.

Not even Sigurrd Jarl, young, ambitious and ruthless as he was, felt any regret over the demise of Khamúl. The Nazgûl had done its part, Sigurrd _was_ the chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine – he needed no more interventions in this battle, which he was determined to win. King Brand had fallen, and so had the black demon, the slayer of the Nazgûl; there was no strength that could still save Dale.

Or so Sigurrd hoped, and with him the small handful of lesser jarls who were still alive and capable of wielding a sword or an axe.

Now all those surviving jarls were also at the foot of the wall. Angarr Jarl brought a huge, blood-red banner on horseback: the ceremonial banner of the chieftain. That banner had witnessed many victories of the Tribe during the recent years; mostly against other tribes in territorial fights, but on occasion also against the Northmen, some of whom dwelt east of the fringes of Mirkwood. At the sight of the banner, the Khimmer warriors broke into renewed yelling.

“ _Okkor_ is with us! Now the moment of victory is there!”

Angarr Jarl reached the Gate Tower with the banner. There the defence appeared to be the most precarious, as even women had been fighting there only moments before. Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, who was trying to help Dáin Ironfoot to defend King Brand’s lifeless body from desecration, caught sight of the broad ceremonial banner glittering with gold seam and tassels. He sent a message to Prince Meilyr for reinforcements, and threw himself into the hand-to-hand fighting again, not the least hindered by the fact that he only had one hand. A light wooden shield, covered with steel, was fastened to his maimed arm with strong leather straps. He had become quite skilled at protecting himself with that, while wielding his sword with the same skill as before.

The other defenders also struggled on in a mist of rising dust and smoke. The rings of pitch-dipped straw and fire-balls flew through the smoke-clouds like falling stars.

“Baruk Khazâd!” the battle cry of the Dwarves could be heard amidst the chaos. “Khazâd air-mênu!”

At the moment when Prince Meilyr’s fresh troops – well, as fresh as anyone could be after three days of vicious fighting – reached the Gate, a huge stone, launched by some sort of home-made catapult, fell inwards and hit Dáin Ironfoot on the head. A mere Man would have been dead on the spot from the sheer force of that hit, but the great Dwarf just shook his massive head, a bit dazzled, and turned around to face his next opponent. Ere he could have got his bearings again, though, a broad-shouldered Khimmer warrior plunged his broadsword into his throat, between the iron collar of his mail shirt and the rim of his helmet. Whether aimed with great skill or by sheer luck, the thrust was deadly. Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain, legendary hero of the Battles of Azanulbizar and the Five Armies, collapsed onto the body of King Brand, his fallen friend and ally.

“Revyak! Revyak!” hooted the Easterlings in delight. Once again, Revyak the Berserk had proven his strength and his fighting skills. He had slain the Dwarf King. Now there would be no more hindrance in their way.

Cuhelyn ap Dafydd looked around, a bit frantically, for someone to stop the berserker. He was still too far, himself, and could not hope to clear a path through the thicket of the attackers.

“Charge! Charge!” he shouted from the top of his lungs. “Help is on its way!”

There were no defenders close enough – no men, at the very least, although the clattering of hooves could be heard, even above the battle noise. A slender warrior came galloping through the still open Gate, clad in polished mail from head to foot, and over it the tabard of the Knights of Dale. Cuhelyn recognized with a pang of fear Princess Eilonwy.

“Cuhelyn!” she cried. “Call the Guards back. If the Gate falls, we are all lost!” And with a sudden jerk to the bridle, she brought her horse sharply around and rode down the berserk from behind.

That did not kill Revyak, of course, but stopped his momentum long enough for the bugles to call the mounted Guards back. Sir Anarawd rode forth with the remaining knights of the town to their protection, and they brought the bodies of the two fallen Kings – and that of the Dark Elf, slayer of the Nazgûl – back within.

The peasants managed to shut and bolt the Gate at the last possible moment. In the next one, they could hear the Easterlings hammering against the door wings with felled tree-trunks that they used as makeshift rams.

“Block the Gate with the biggest, heaviest square stones you can find,” Prince Meilyr, who had just arrived with a few dozen men, ordered. “It must _not_ be broken. All the others: on to the walls with you!”

The sound of his voice filled the men with new power. Their King might be dead, but their valiant young Prince was still unharmed – well, mostly – and fighting alongside them with all his might. They grabbed their weapons and ran up onto the walls, stabbing the attackers that tried to climb in, while the peasants kept piling up huge stones to block the Gate.

Cuhelyn ap Dafydd had made it back with the others in the last retreat and was now fighting on the wall like a demon. He recognized among the attackers the berserk, the murderer of the Dwarf King, who seemed to have recovered from having been ridden down by Princess Eilonwy. He saw that the Easterling wore well-made plate armour; swords would likely glance off it. And he was a big, burly man, with a battle-axe in one hand and a broadsword in the other one, capable of fighting for two, at the very least.

Cuhelyn, half the man’s size and having only one hand to fight with, was at a serious disadvantage. Still, he would have thrown himself in the berserk’s way – and most likely died as a result – had Sir Anarawd not been faster.

The captain of the Knights of Dale, also clad in steel armour from head to toe, had just reached the top of the wall when he, too, discovered the berserk. With a great cry, he hurled himself on the Easterling and pressed him down on the wall. But Revyak Jarl was a man of great strength, with a barrel-like chest and broad shoulders; not an easy one to defeat. He wriggled beneath the knight like an armoured snake, trying to get free. With a less experienced opponent he might have succeeded, but Sir Anarawd had seen at least as many battles as his enemy. With his iron-gloved hands, he grabbed the Easterling’s head and jerked it to the side forcefully. His neck broken, Revyak the Berserk died without any further noise.

For a moment, Anarawd ap Amren remained kneeling on the wall and looked down with heaving chest and slightly glassy eyes. Blood was dripping from his beard, for he had received a grazing cut from a former opponent. Then he picked up his fallen sword and turned on the enemy again.

While the fighting was raging on at the Gate Tower, simultaneous attacks had been launched at both small watchtowers on the places where the town wall reached the Mountain’s stony foot. On the eastern end Ieuan ap Ifor led the defenders in a semi-organized manner, but in all that chaos everyone seemed to have forgotten about the western tower. Everyone but young Sigurrd Jarl, that is, who had recognized the breach in the defence line and quickly disposed fresh troops to launch a sneak attack there.

The Khimmer warriors pushed and tumbled over each other a soon as they had climbed the siege-ladders and reached the wall. Each wanted to be the first to set foot in the besieged town. The first of them jumped onto the small tower with their banners to claim it for the Tribe of the White Kine. The ones who came after them charged the wounded that had been laid under the palisades and the women who took care of them. One of the attackers kicked the fire burning right atop the wall down onto the palisade, and the seasoned wood of which it had been made caught fire easily.

“Water!” called an elderly woman, the butcher’s wife, and she seized the nearby cauldron waiting to be set upon the fire, to quench the flames.

A grown man would have had a hard time to lift that cauldron when filled with water as it was, but the butcher’s wife was a sturdy woman, capable of heaving half a slaughtered cattle in her husband’s slaughterhouse if she had to. With a grunt, she lifted the cauldron and drenched the burning beams of the palisade. Then she turned around with billowing skirts and hit the nearest Easterling on the head with the now empty cauldron with such force that the man fell backwards from the wall with a broken skull.

“Strike them! Strike them!” roared a deep voice, almost as powerful as those of the Dwarves, and Master Smith Collen ap Collfrewr rushed to the aid of the women with his hammer in hand, still wearing his leather apron as he had come away from his forge.

Three Easterlings jumped up onto the wall, equally determined to slay him, finding the huge bear of a man a worthier opponent than all the womenfolk. He gave them the fight they had asked for. The first one he struck so hard on the head that the bronze helmet split in two and the man’s skull was smashed into bloody pulp within the two halves. The second one fared no better, his brains splattering out of his nose and his ears from the smith’s blow. The third one, seeing that mere strength would not help him against such a mighty foe, suddenly dropped to his knees and plunged his broadsword to the hilt in the smith’s stomach.

“You will go before me to the afterlife, filthy dog!” roared Collen ap Collfrewr. Despite his grievous wound, he whirled the fifty-pond hammer around and smote his enemy, flattering the Easterling’s helmet like flatbread with that last, terrible blow. Only when he saw the man collapse allowed he himself to sit down heavily and pressed a broad hand against his slit stomach. His soot-blackened finger soon became bright red from his own blood.

By then, all the women had picked up the weapons lying around and fell on the Easterlings with screams of rage and fury. Some of them were the daughters or wives of warriors and knew how to handle a sword or a pike, but even the simple peasant women had become warriors in that time of great need. They followed no rules; nor did they defend themselves – and yet, driven by anger and despair, they managed to hold on the wave of Khimmer attackers for a moment.

“Valar bless the women!” sighed Collen ap Collfrewr, his dimming eyes filling with tears of pride. Then his head sank forward to his breast, and he died.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Drizzt rouse, he felt strangely numb and cold, more so than he had ever felt in his life. More than when he had been living high in the mountains of Icewind Dale in winter. This surprised him a little, knowing that they were well into spring already; and besides, the climate here was much milder than the one he had been used to in his previous life – ‘til he realized that the coldness came from within. It originated in his sword-arm, which he could barely move, and had spread to his shoulder and his entire right side.

That would have been strange and frightening enough on itself, but it was not his only concern. It seemed to him as if he had been mind-swept by an entire colony of _illithid_ ; his brain barely recognized anything or anyone in his surroundings, and some bone-deep weariness had settled over him like a dark cloud. He had no bent toward despair, not even in the most hopeless of situations, yet right now he felt truly close.

He was lying on some sort of makeshift pallet, surrounded by the pitiful moans and pained cries of wounded Men. He must have been brought to the Healing House, then. 

The ruddy, tired face of Mistress Helydd swam into the field of his still blurred vision. The kind, dark eyes looked at him in concern, then, after a moment, the greying head nodded.

“He is still alive,” she said to someone whom Drizzt could not see. There was something akin to awe in her voice.

“He is an Elf,” replied a male voice; after a moment of confusion, Drizzt recognized it as Master Arawn’s. “They are said to be more resilient to the Black Breath than Men are.”

“Can he get up?” a third voice, this one female again, and quite young by the sound of it, asked worriedly. “The King wants to have Last Words with him, if he can go to him.”

King Brand was still _alive_? After a wound like the one he had received from the Nazgûl? The Man must have been much stronger than Drizzt had thought… but, apparently, not strong enough to actually survive.

“Last Words with _him_? Not with Prince Meilyr?” asked the healer in understandable shock, as Last Words were sacred and usually exchanged between father and son… or daughter, if there were no sons to be brought to the father’s death bed in time.

Princess Eilonwy, for hers was the third voice, shook her head.

“Meilyr cannot leave the walls right now,” she answered sadly. “He is the only one to keep our people fighting. The King has asked for the Dark Elf, should he be alive and strong enough to move.”

“I am not wounded,” said Drizzt, slightly annoyed by the way they kept talking about him while he was there, alive and conscious… more or less. There was a strange, clouded quality to his mind, and moving was difficult, as if he had to wade through huge amounts of murky water. And his sword-arm felt still numb and ice cold.

“You have been overwhelmed by the Black Breath,” replied the healer, “which is ten times worse than any sword wound and near impossible to heal, at least for our modest skills. Mayhap the Wood-Elves know some medicine for it. But if you can indeed get up and go to the King, you should do so. For his time is short, and he will be fortunate to get his Last Words spoken at all.”

Understanding that the deliverance of one’s Last Words – and even more so those of a King – had great importance for the Men of Dale, Drizzt agreed to pay King Brand a final visit. With the help of Princess Eilonwy, who seemed to have steely strength in those slender limbs of hers, he was led to a private chamber of the Healing House, reserved for the royal family. Right now, it was just as crowded as every other room in the House, though, with wounded Elves and Dwarves lying on their pallets quietly, saving their remaining strength. Drizzt recognized Tuilindo among them. The archer’s fair face was deathly pale, his lips and fingernails tinted with blue, but he was still alive, if his shallow, laboured breathing was any indication.

“He has agreed to let the King speak with you first,” said Princess Eilonwy in a low voice. “I beg you, Master Elf… there is very little time left.”

Drizzt nodded and allowed her to take him to the King’s bed, at which Queen Regath was sitting with a sorrowful yet composed face. The King’s face was ash grey, and he seemed to be in much pain, but his eyes were clear and aware.

“You have… slain it,” he whispered. “I could… feel it… die…”

“I have,” replied Drizzt simply. “It is gone and will never return.”

“Good… it is good…” the King closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the pain and numbness that was spreading in his broken body steadily. Then he looked up again. “My… sword?”

“’Tis gone, too, Sire,” answered Princess Eilonwy in regret. “Burned like a piece of wood. Only the hilt remained.”

“As it was… foretold,” the King sighed. “What it was… forged for. All is well… I am ready to… go to my… forefathers. But first…” he fumbled with a weakened hand, and Eilonwy, knowing what he wanted, helped him to remove an ornate brooch from his cloak that lay folded next to him. “Whatever happens… let them know that… Drizzt Do’Urden is… now a Knight… of Dale. Meilyr... should do it…” he trailed off, exhausted.

Princess Eilonwy nodded. “I shall see to it, Sire.” She did not add ‘if we live to see the day’. There was no need to say it; all knew the odds and how slim they were.

She fastened the brooch on Drizzt’s tunic, and the King’s eyes fell shut again.

“Good…” he said. “I would spend… my last moments… with the Queen, then… Fare thee well… Drizzt Do’Urden…”

“Fare thee well, my lord King,” replied Drizzt, deeply touched.

The Princess then helped him to the pallet of Tuilindo and left him there, returning to the battle where every sword was desperately needed. Drizzt waited patiently. He could see that Tuilindo was keeping death at bay by sheer willpower that he had cultivated during a life long enough to contain an Age and a half, but it was a losing battle. The arrow wounds on his neck were swollen and had a ghastly purple colour, in bizarre contrast with the paleness of his skin. He acknowledged Drizzt’s presence with a flutter of his eyelids but could not look up just yet. There could be no doubt that his death was imminent, too, and Drizzt felt deep sadness filling his heart. They could have become friends, given a little more time. They had much in common.

Finally Tuilindo felt strong enough to open already dimming blue eyes and glanced up to him with a weak shadow of his customary broad smile.

“I heard you have… slain… the Nazgûl,” he said in a weak but surprisingly steady voice. “We never thought it… possible, but you have given us… new hope. Still… raising a sword… against it is… perilous. You feel it, do you not?”

Drizzt nodded. “My arm is cold as ice, and I can barely use my sword-hand,” he answered tiredly. “My mind seems clouded somehow, too; and my vision is blurred.”

“Foul sorcery,” murmured Tuilindo, rapidly losing his strength, such as he still had left. “You are not from here, so you… might be able to… fight it better. But if it becomes too much, there… is a place… Alagos knows… ask him…”

“What kind of place?” asked Drizzt, trying to keep the other Elf grounded just a little longer.

“Stone… stone flower,” whispered Tuilindo. “Mori… Moriquendi of… of Ramandur… ask… Alagos…”

He sighed weakly and spoke no more. A few slow, laboured breaths later his eyes dimmed and he became very still. Drizzt took his hand, but it was cold and limp.

“He has gone to the Halls,” said another Elf who lay nearby with a nasty leg wound. “He was only waiting to speak his farewells.”

“What will happen with his body?” asked Drizzt.

“When the battle is over, those of us who can still move freely will take him and the other fallen ones back to the forest,” replied the Elf, “and give them to the _nargaladh_ , the fire-trees.”

“You bury your dead in the branches of a tree, leaving them to the carrion birds?” asked Drizzt, appalled.

The Elf – a female one, he realized somewhat belatedly – shook her head with a sorrowful smile. “The _nargaladh_ keep the carrion eaters away. And our bodies disintegrate within days anyway. We are part of the forest, after all.”

“Did you hear aught about the fate of King Dáin?” asked Drizzt. “Is he here, too?”

“Nay,” said the Elf. “He is dead. The Dwarves will take his body back to Erebor and bury him in stone… after the battle.”

“If there are any of us still left,” said Drizzt, for the hope for _that_ seemed to fade with every passing moment.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Princess Eilonwy rushed back to the battle with a naked sword in hand. She knew that her husband was defending the Gate Tower, so she would not be needed there. Ieuan ap Ifor and his men were in control of the eastern watchtower, but at the West-Tower, things still did not look good. Only a handful grubby, smoke-grimed soldiers were fighting there desperately with short spears, their right arms and sides black with blood.

The Princess could see the lifeless body of the Master Smith lying here, among several more corpses, with terrible chest wounds, skulls split by axes or arrows protruding from their breasts. She recognized them all, every single one of them. They were her people, her responsibility. And now they were dead.

She knew she could not have done anything to save them – they had died to protect their homes and died willingly. And yet she felt as if she had failed them somehow. She was the wife of the Prince Regent; it was her duty to protect the people. In that, she _had_ failed them indeed.

Women came panting from the cellar, waking her from her strange mood. They carried wooden mugs on their heads and pails or pots with handles in their hands, bringing water and wine to strengthen the exhausted soldiers. Eilonwy hurried past them to reach the hidden little tunnel sloping upwards to the western side before them. Two lamps were burning inside the tunnel that linked the barracks with the upper walls, and thus this counted as the weakest point of defence, as it provided easy access to the lower town… assuming that the enemy knew – or recently learned – about its existence.

Eilonwy realized that _some_ of the Khimmer troops must have discovered the easy way in, for the tunnel was already filled with dust and smoke, and there were dead bodies scattered around, mainly facing downwards, up on the shallow steps, still gripping their weapons. The Princess jumped lightly over a long-handled club, dropped by one of the Easterlings – then she turned back for a moment and picked it up. It was heavy, but not so heavy that she could wield it, and a second weapon might prove useful. She ran up the steps and came out of the tunnel on top of the wall, near the West-Tower.

A desperate hand-to-hand combat was going on there. The soldiers on the wall were pushing the Easterlings back with all their might, using not just their weapons but anything they could lay their hands upon. A woman, struggling on their side, hurled the stump of a burning log down onto the attackers. Another woman picked up a blazing fire-ball and whirled it back at the enemy, hitting a large Khimmer warrior on the neck with it. Cursing, yells of “ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” and the battle cries of the Dwarves, mixed with the clattering of hooves, crashing and banging filled the air.

Half a dozen Easterlings were still on the wall. The defenders struck them down, and there was a moment of pause in the fighting, and the worn-out soldiers shouted for water with hoarse voices. The women had caught up with the Princess in the meantime, and were offering the mugs to the soldiers, not caring for the burning sheaves that were flying across their path or the arrows that hit the walls in front and behind. The soldiers needed to drink to regain what strength they still possessed. Water was all they had hoped for – but what they got instead was strong red wine, and it filled each of them with the strength of two. Drudwas ap Aeddan had opened the King’s own wine-cellar for them, as the fate of the town lay in their hands.

And it was a good thing, too, for in the next moment new multitudes, new ladders, new shields swarmed over the pile of dead bodies, and rough voices rose again in a great outcry of “ _Okkor! Okkor!_ ” Eilonwy hurled the club she had packed up in the tunnel with all her considerable strength at the attackers. The impact slew a broadly-built Khimmer warrior, but a dozen sprang into its wake immediately.

Drops in the Long Lake, nothing else.

The Easterlings began to throw stones with the help of slings and makeshifts catapults again, and the defenders were forced to seek cover. Eilonwy tarried just a moment too long; a stone – fortunately a smaller one – struck her helmet and cracked it open. She staggered for a heartbeat, but her thick hair, coiled atop her head under the helmet, absorbed most of the hit. She shook her head somewhat distracted by the ringing in her ears, then regained her strength and threw herself into the fighting again.

Below the wall the brass drums rattled and the trumpets brayed. The jarls, now riding in the first rows, were driving their warriors forward with the sheer power of their bloodlust. The walls soon filled with new bands of climbing Easterlings, some of them not even waiting for the ladders. Others brought rope-ladders, hooked them on suitable stones and within the moment, they, too, swarmed the walls.

More women came, carrying boiling lead, boiling oil and boiling water in large pots hung from poles. Without waiting for orders, they tipped them on to the Easterlings. Some of them were hit by arrows or stones, but the others did not waste any time with looking at those unfortunate ones. There would be time after the siege… or never. They turned on their heels and hurried back to refill their pots, for boiling liquids were the most useful weapon against the wooden canopies covered with wet hides, which the Easterlings had brought out again.

They were fighting in almost complete darkness now, lit only by the torches of the attackers and the fires burning directly atop the walls. ‘Twas not even a formal battle any longer, just one endless, agonizing massacre. The personal guards of the jarls had taken over the slave drivers’ task, using not whips but swords and maces on those who would turn back from the struggle. Both attackers and defenders knew that there would be no further battle. There would be no warriors left to fight it.

In the storm of fighting, Meilyr and Eilonwy met for a short moment – perchance the last they would ever share.

“The King?” asked the Prince.

“He still lived – barely – when I left the Healing House,” replied his wife.

That surprised Meilyr, although the death bells had not rung for the King yet. But he had thought that there had simply been no time or no-one to ring them.

“I thought he has fallen dead right during his duel with the Nazgûl,” he said.

Eilonwy shook her head. “He had Last Words with the Dark Elf,” she said, “and is with the Queen now. But he will be gone, soon.”

“And so will be we,” sighed Meilyr, “unless a miracle happens. For I very much doubt that the Dwarven army will reach us in time.”

“Let us keep up the fight, then, and hope for that miracle,” said Eilonwy. They kissed each other amidst the sea of death and destruction and returned to their respective posts.

Some time later, the bells of Dale began to ring, clearly audible above the infernal battle noise. ‘Twas not one of the usual merry signals, though, well-known and much-loved by the townspeople. The Bell-Guard was tolling them in a lopsided way, not allowing for the backwards swing that would produce the deeper, fuller counterpoint. The tone the bells gave was high, shrill, disturbing, and the defenders’ hearts filled with grief and fury.

Few of them had heard that particular signal more than once in their lives. The youngest ones only knew it from old tales, and all hoped never to hear it again. For that tone was the death-bell, the lament for a King who had gone to his forefathers.

King Brand, already thought dead by many who had witnessed his duel with the Nazgûl, finally submitted to his grievous wounds. The people of Dale were orphaned, without a King, and they would remain that way ‘til Prince Bard could be crowned and take his father’s throne.

If anyone would survive to see that day.

Yet ere the townspeople could truly have realized their terrible loss, hundreds of torches could be seen flaming on the lower slopes of the Lonely Mountain. Steel armour glinted in the torchlight, deep-voiced horns called, and heavy, thundering drums boomed as the Dwarves of Erebor marched down the slopes with grim faces, sharpened weapons in their hands and battle fury in their great hearts to enter the battle in this crucial hour.

And as some terrible echo, other horns and drums answered them from the back of the Easterling army, more torches were lit, and from hundreds of Dwarven throats rose the great battle cry that never failed to make the hearts of their enemies tremble.

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”

The Dwarves of the Iron Hills had finally arrived. And their cousins of Erebor had received word of that arrival just in time to launch their counterattack simultaneously.

Prince Meilyr might have lost his father, but he got his miracle, after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why Thranduil was lingering in the Golden Wood is described in my other story, "The Prisoner of Dol Guldur", which will be the next to be posted here.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 19**

The long-expected arrival of the united Dwarven forces turned the tide of the battle in that night. Not that the Easterlings would give up easily; they were too stubborn and too proud to do so, and thus the desperate struggle went on almost till daybreak. But the fighting was getting further and further away from the town walls under the onslaught of the Dwarves, and the defenders could finally breathe a little easier.

As the attackers left the walls to face the new enemy, Prince Meilyr ordered all mounted warriors of Dale who could still wield a weapon to charge after them. He put them under the command of Sir Anarawd, as he needed to remain in town himself and begin to have the dead picked up and the moat cleared of the corpses. He was the Prince Regent, and ‘til the coronation of his brother he had to bear the burden of leadership alone. Afterwards, they would share duties between them and their wives as tradition dictated, but at the moment the burden was solely on his shoulders.

Upon the Dwarves’ arrival, the _drakkars_ of Esgaroth moored, too, and the armed Lakemen attacked the retreating Easterlings with great vigour. With united strength, at dawntime they finally managed to achieve victory and capture all the surviving jarls, save one. Sigurrd Jarl had somehow slipped through the net; no-one understood how.

“And I would so love to get my hands on that one,” growled Sir Anarawd through gritted teeth.

Gunnar Otirsson, who miraculously came out of the latest battle without as much as a scratch or a bruise, despite having fought in the first row all the time, shrugged.

“We might get him yet,” he said. “The scouts are out looking for him. But even if he gets away with his life, the Tribe of the White Kine shall not bother us again any time soon.”

After that last, terrible attack, three days followed while the dead were cleared away… on both sides. The captured Easterlings were assigned – under the watchful eye of the Dwarves – to carry the bodies of their own dead to a place where they had cut a great many trees in order to build the wooden canopies used in the siege. There they dug a wide and deep trench to lay them to rest and then covered them with earth.

It was slow and unpleasant work; for the fallen were so many that they lay piled in heaps at the foot of the walls. The blood in the ditches had turned to mud so deep that people had to throw gangplanks over them in places, so that they would be able to do their grisly work at all. And around the dead there lay scattered and wretched shields, banners of the White Kine, now blackened with the dried blood of its children, broken bows, spears, axes and swords everywhere. And there was the fearful stench of rotting corpses.

Fearing the outbreak of a plague, Prince Meilyr ordered fires to be kindled all atop the walls and dried verbena leaves and other incense to be burned on them, in order to clean the air as much as possible. This also served to keep the carrion birds away from the town itself, as the _crebain_ , while not afraid of fire as a rule, had a great dislike for the clean scent of those plants.

For inside the town, too, there were terrible losses. Counting those who had died on the previous days of the siege, more than three hundred defenders were laid out in honour for the Farewell, ere being taken to the sacred burial grounds. Among them was King Brand himself. Mistress Briavael, the widow of his old steward. The young knight Cadwaladr ap Grippiud. Lord Govannion ap Sion, the father-in-law of Princess Branwen. Collen ap Collfrewr, the Master Blacksmith, who – having been a widower already – at least left no grieving woman behind, but who was mourned by four grown children. The butcher’s wife, whose name Drizzt had never learned. Swordsmen and bowmen and spearmen and axemen of all ages and standing, and peasants who had never been taught to wield a weapon but who had done their best to defend their home town and died for it nonetheless. And women and girls, too, in a great, silent multitude of blood-stained and often maimed corpses.

The survivors that could move on their own – or with the support of others, at the very least – gathered in the wide, open place between the barracks to pay their respects to the fallen, ere these would be carried off to their final resting place. Prince Bard, who had come with the Dwarves of Erebor to take part in the big counter-attack, stood there bare-headed, holding the standard of the fallen King. On his side stood Thorin Stonehelm, King Dáin’s son and heir, in magnificent Dwarven armour, holding his helm under his arm. As Bard had not been crowned yet, it fell to his brother, Prince Meilyr, though, to speak the words of Farewell.

The Prince Regent was in a truly frightening shape, in spite the fact that the healers had done all they could to make him presentable for this ceremony. His handsome face was covered with bruises, one eye still swollen shut and barely visible, and he had a bandage around his head in the shape and size of a white turban. But his good eye was bright and alert, and he could stand on his own well enough, barely needing the support of his wife – whose shield-arm was in a sling, by the way.

“My friends,” he said in a clear, ringing voice that reached to the farthest corner of the wide, open space, “I have the honour to speak the words of parting to you who have died in blood and fire for Dale. You have followed your King to defend your home town to your last breath, even though there was so little hope to win, and I praise and honour your names for that. Dale thanks you for giving your lives for its rescue bravely and selflessly,” here Prince Brand lowered the standard respectfully. “The King who was thanks you,” continued Prince Meilyr, “and the King who will be thanks you. Our forefathers will be honoured to accept you in their venerable circles; you have made them proud. You have made us all proud. We shall remember you as heroes as long as the walls of Dale will stand – and beyond. And we shall take good care of those you have left behind. Be at peace, brave sons and daughters of Dale – you have earned it tenfold.”

And he bent his knee as the sign of his respect, and all people present followed his example. Then the bells of Dale began to chime again, and a long procession set off to carry the fallen heroes to their final rest.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morn Drizzt slept late – unusually late for someone of his tireless nature - and still felt strangely fatigued. He remembered what the healers had said about the Black Breath and wondered if that meant he would feel weak and tired for the rest of his life. He hoped not, but should that be the case, he would accept it. He had been given a chance to fight a good battle, for noble purposes, to find friends from different races; it was a good way to end a life, even if an untimely one. He was content.

He got up just in time to speak his farewells to the surviving Nandor Elves who were about to return with their dead to Mirkwood.

“Do not forget Tuilindo’s last words,” Eruhanye warned him, the female warrior with the leg wound. She was walking around on her own already; a bit clumsily perhaps yet steadily enough. “Ask Alagos about the Moriquendi; they may be able to help you.”

“Travelling will be safer in the future,” added another Elf. “We have no word about how the war is going in the South, yet the far skies are clearing up, as if after a long night, and we can feel a lightness in the air and in the hearts of the trees, as if a great burden would have been lifted from the world. We hope that things are going well.”

“If that is so, and the Dark Lord has fallen against all hope, many of our kind will leave these shores,” said a third one. “But the Wood-Elves will remain, and so will the Moriquendi, ‘til the end of Arda. You will always have a place among us, cousin.”

“The same thing have the Men of Dale told me,” replied Drizzt with a smile. It was… strange that people would compete for the chance to have him in their midst. That had never happened in Faerûn; of course, here he did not have to fight the (well-earned) bad reputation of the Drow.

“And they mean it, too, I am sure of that,” said the Elf. “But in the long run you would do better staying with your own kind.”

“We are not truly the same kind,” answered Drizzt mildly.

The Elf shrugged. “We are close enough… with more hope for true understanding. At the very least you should return to Mirkwood. King Thranduil would wish to keep you in his court, I deem – after all, nominally you still are under his rule.”

“I will,” said Drizzt, “but not at once. I have promised Master Otir to accompany him to Laketown first. Give my respects to Prince Egilstadir when you return to your people.”

“And you mine to Silinde Ladyhawk, when you are in King Thranduil’s court again,” replied the Elf. “It was an honour to fight on your side, Drizzt Do’Urden. May the Valar continue to protect you.”

With that, the Nandor Elves left Dale and took their dead with them. Drizzt was a little sad to see them go, but as it had been mostly Tuilindo with whom he had forged a kind of bond, the feel of loss was not overwhelming. If there were any Elves in Middle-earth whose company he truly missed, those were Alagos and Silinde. Perhaps the other Elf was right. Perhaps he needed to return to the Elvenking’s court eventually. If he had to die, soon, that was the closest thing to a home for him in these foreign lands.

He _longed_ to return, in truth. But he had to visit Laketown first. Master Otir insisted; and, to be completely honest, he _did_ want to see that merry little town in peacetime.

He only hoped his time would last long enough for both.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When the people of Dale returned from the burial caves, the cleaning of the town from all signs and stains of the battle began in earnest. The Dwarves went to work with them willingly, removing the outer layers of the stone walls an inch or two deep in some places, so that no trace of blood would mar the beauty of the stone. Dwarves had great respect for the stone and could be… peculiar sometimes.

The captured Khimmer warriors – and their surviving Mordvin slaves – were made to clean out the ditches around the town walls. They had to shovel out the blood-soaked mud ‘til they reached the stony ground beneath; the gore then was carried in leather buckets to the same place where their fallen comrades had been buried and covered with earth. That, too, was gut-twisting work, expected to go on for days to come. Those Dwarves who did not help with the cleaning of the stone kept a close eye on the captives and seemed to find great delight in ordering them around. ‘Twas a delight no-one begrudged them. The Easterlings had more than deserved their fate.

In the evening, the surviving members of the court had their first gathering – not in the audience chamber under the bell-tower, which still hadn’t been cleaned, but in the Great Hall of the King’s House that, miraculously, remained almost untouched by the siege. This was the first gathering after the unexpected victory, and one in which not only the knights and counsellors of the court took part but all the allied captains who were still in Dale.

As custom dictated, the Prince Regent was presiding in the fallen King’s state. Prince Meilyr still did not look much better than on the day before, but at least he was freshly bathed and newly bandaged; and he was wearing his royal finery, just like his wife. They were clad in black, silver and green – the colours of the Mountain, the Lake and the Forest – with the sea dragons of Dale embroidered upon their breast. Prince Meilyr’s ankle-long, black linen tunic was embroidered with silver thread along the neckline, on the wide cuffs and on the seam, and he wore a masterfully wrought silver belt with it. Princess Eilonwy’s gown was forest green, with wide sleeves that almost but not quite swept the floor, with a crimson bodice and a silver girdle akin to her husband’s belt worn above it. Her dark hair was let down and covered with an artfully draped white veil. And they had crowns set upon their brow: thin silver circlets, adorned with the images of oak leaves.

Prince Bard and Princess Melangell were clad similarly, only without the crowns, and their clothes were embroidered with gold. After the coronation, as Drudwas ap Aeddan whispered into Drizzt’s ear, they would wear crowns of the same design but made of gold. Queen Regath did not appear – of a new widow it was expected to stay away from feasts for a full year. Towards a newly widowed queen, the expectations were even stronger. She would spend the rest of her life in a secluded part of the King’s House.

When the knights and counsellors and other nobles of the court were finally all gathered, Prince Meilyr sent an errand boy to the Bell-Guard and once again, the bells of Dale began to chime. ‘Twas a merry tune this time, announcing to the townspeople that their Lord was in residence. One bell, however, the largest and heaviest of all, remained silent; it was the King’s Bell, and it would not sound ‘til Dale had a King again. It was a most comforting sound nonetheless; one that signalled that life began to gradually return to normal.

When the bells fell silent after a while, Prince Meilyr looked around with a smile that could be barely seen on his badly battered face. It could be heard in his voice, though, thus all could know it to be a genuine one.

“My friends,” he said, "we have received joyous news today. Our friends, the thrushes, have returned from the Misty Mountains and brought these tidings right from the beaks of the Great Eagles who had stood witness: that the Dark Lord had indeed fallen, and with him his dark realm; and his evil creatures, the Wraiths, are gone and will never return. The Dark Tower in Mordor has been levelled and swallowed by the very earth that had opened under it; and Mount Doom has crumbled into itself, its fiery belly sealed, for what we hope will be forever. Rejoice with me, my friends, for after so many years we are finally given true peace and freedom.”

For a moment, the court remained in shocked silence. No-one of them had truly hoped to be free from the threat of Mordor – it had gone on for too long for mere Men to comprehend the possibility of it being over one day. It was almost too much. Their minds refused to take it in all at once. They were still trying to get used to the knowledge that they had succeeded in defending the town, after all.

“That is wondrous news indeed,” Sir Anarawd said finally, his voice still tinted with doubt. “Who was the great warrior, though, who achieved that miraculous deed?”

“As I am told,” replied Prince Meilyr in mild amusement, “it was a rather _small_ warrior, at least where the size of his body is considered.”

“A Dwarf?” someone asked, and the Prince Regent laughed.

“Nay, not a Dwarf,” he said. “Someone even smaller, although with the heart and the bravery that would put the great Elves of the Elder Days to shame. We all remember the tales of the Dragon’s fall and the part a small but courageous being played in it…”

“You mean a _Hobbit_?” the Dwarf warlord Högstarri interrupted him incredulously. “A _Hobbit_ defeated Sauron? Now, I know they are a hardy people, but this I cannot believe.”

“You may wish to change your mind, Högstarri,” said Dori, the elder counsellor of the late King Dáin. “Or have you forgotten how the esteemed burglar Bilbo Baggins defeated the Great Spiders and rescued us from their clutches all on his own? And how he helped us escape from the Elvenking’s dungeons?”

“King Thranduil threw you into the dungeons?” asked Drizzt in surprise. “What for?”

“That is another story; one I would be glad to share with you at a more proper time,” answered the big BlackLock, his indigo eyes twinkling in amusement. “You will like it. What I was saying is that Hobbits are a resourceful and unpredictable people who can show unexpected bravery if pushed hard enough. I assume,” he added, turning back to Prince Meilyr, “that this has something to do with Bilbo’s ring of magic? The one he found during our adventure?”

The Prince Regent nodded. “You are wise as always, Lord Dori; it has. Only that it was not _Bilbo_ ’s ring at all. It was the One Ring, the greatest of all Great Rings of Power, made by Sauron’s own hands. The same Ring the Dark Lord had been searching for ever since he took on a shape again.”

“And Bilbo just happened to find it in a dark cave under the Misty Mountains by accident,” Dori shook his head in disbelief. “I know it was with the Ring’s help that he managed to save our lives, and that twice. But what Ring it was no-one could fathom,” he shook his head again. “Only a Hobbit can make such a found and get away with it unscathed.”

“Unscathed?” repeated Master Glóin who had come down from Erebor to help with the cleaning of the stonework in town. “Believe me, for I saw Bilbo in Elrond’s house last year: that thing has wrung him out like a laundress wrings a freshly washed cloth. As long as he had it in his pocket, he seemed not to age at all, but as soon as he finally got rid of it, age has caught up with him at a terrifying pace. Even dormant, the Ring tried to enslave him, Gandalf says, as it had enslaved its former bearer; and I do not even dare to image what a burden it would have been - awake - for Bilbo’s young cousin, who vowed to carry it to Mount Doom – the only place where it could be destroyed.”

The Prince Regent gave him a sharp look. “You have known what was going on, all the time?” he asked. “And you never told anyone?”

The old Dwarf shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I was sworn to secrecy, for that way alone could Frodo Baggins hope – and against all hope, mind you – to reach Mordor undetected in the first place. My own firstborn, Gimli, was one of the Ringbearer’s companions; and so was Thranduil’s only son and Gandalf, the Grey Wizard. I only told Thranduil the truth, one father to another; and after almost three Ages, he knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

Master Otir grinned. “Oh, I can remember my grandfather’s tales about Bilbo Baggins; and how thirteen Dwarves escaped from the Elvenking’s dungeons by hiding in barrels the Elves themselves ferried down the Forest River unknowingly,” he said. “As children, we loved those tales, and Bilbo Baggins was our favourite hero – right next to Bard the Bowman,” he added, winking at the two Princes. “Even if their coming led to the destruction of Laketown as it was before.”

“It also led to the fall of the Dragon, for which we could never truly hope,” reminded him Prince Meilyr. “And without that – without _him_ – Dale would never have risen from its ruin. Oh, Bilbo was _my_ favourite hero as well! And if it was his kinsman who stole into Mordor with the Ring in secrecy, I am not surprised, not surprised at all. His kin seems to have a special gift for that sort of thing.”

“Even so, it was a great deed,” said Sir Anarawd. “What has become of him, do you know it?”

“The Great Eagles rescued him from Mount Doom at the last moment, at Gandalf’s request,” answered Prince Meilyr. “However, ‘tis not certain if he will live yet, he and his manservant who held out faithfully on his side ‘til the very end. They had suffered a lot on their journey, and breathed in the poisonous fumes of Mordor for a long time. We can only hope. The Eagles said there will be a new King in Gondor again, after six and twenty generations, and perchance the North-kingdom, too, will rise again. This new King, they say, is one skilled in the art of healing. We can only hope.”

“If those birds spoke of Aragorn, then there _is_ hope,” said Master Glóin. “He is from the line of the Sea-Kings, unbroken from father to son since Isildur and Elendil who led them back from the fallen Star Island in the West. He has their power, so I heard in Rivendell, and he learned the healing arts from Elrond himself, the greatest healer in Middle-earth. But was there any word of the others? Did my son survive – or Thranduil’s, for that matter?”

“That I cannot tell,” replied Prince Meilyr apologetically. “All I know is that of the companions of the Ring eight have survived. I was not told which ones.”

“Then I can breathe again,” said the old Dwarf in relief, “for there were only nine companions, and I know from Thranduil who knows it from Elrond that Boromir of Gondor was slain by Orcs on their way south, shortly before reaching his homeland. Therefore the others must have survived; among them Legolas Thranduilion and my Gimli.”

Drizzt was glad for the Elvenking to hear that - and also for Master Glóin, whom he had come to like during his short visit in Erebor. He was happier for the Elvenking, though, who had already lost three sons in battle, a daughter to the Sea and a girl-child to the Spiders. Perhaps now Mirkwood, too, would be cleansed, and the Wood-elves could have a more peaceful life in the future.

“Do you have word about how things had ended at Dol Guldur?” he asked, remembering that the Elves had been facing a vicious enemy there at the same time they had defended Dale here.

“We do,” replied the Prince Regent, “although there is little to know as yet. There was a great battle under the trees, the thrushes say, and parts of the Forest were burned. But the Wood-Elves emerged victorious as many of their kin came up on boats from the Golden Wood; and together they tore that dark tower down to its foundations. That is all we know, but while, alas, many Elves died, the tidings are hopeful indeed. Better than we have ever dared to expect.”

“Has King Thranduil returned to his halls yet?” asked Drizzt.

Prince Meilyr shook his head… and winced in pain. “’Tis said he lingers with his kinfolk in the Golden Wood for a while,” he replied. “Perchance he will wait for Prince Legolas’ return from the South; that way they can be reunited earlier, and I have no doubt that he misses his son greatly.” He grinned at the Drow. “He may stay there long enough for you to return from Esgaroth for my brother’s coronation. You will have to come this way in any case.”

“Worry not, my Lord Prince,” Master Otir’s booming laughter filled the hall. “I shall see that he does. I intend to return myself, with young Leifdall, my sons and our families for that. We shall have place on the ship for one skinny Elf, I deem.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Prince Bard. “I cannot imagine anyone more worthy to carry the bow that has slain the Dragon behind me in the procession than the Master Bowman of the Lakemen who gave our people a home during our time of exile.”

The grin faded from Master Otir’s broad, honest face.

“Master Bowman I might have been,” he said in regret, “but I shall never bend a bow again. Mayhap you should choose a worthier one for that honour.”

“Nonsense,” said Prince Bard. “You have fought for our town as if it were your own. We cannot honour you enough. Or you, Master Elf, for that matter,” he added, turning to the Drow. “I wish you in that procession, too… as the carrier of the sword.”

“But the Sword of Cardolan is no longer,” reminded him Sir Anarawd. “All that is left from it is the hilt.”

“And it is enough,” said Prince Bard, “as the evil for which it has been forged a long time ago, has been removed from this world indeed. We shall keep the hilt of the Sword in the highest honours among the treasures of our House; and we shall always remember Drizzt Do’Urden, the Nazgûl Slayer who has wielded it in defence of our lands and people, with the same honour.”

Hearing such high praise from the mouth of a Man – and one who would soon be a King of Men at that – was unusual for Drizzt, to say the least. Certainly, he used to have friends among Men in Faerûn (few though these had been) who had even valued what he had done for them sometimes, but there always had been the unspoken undertone _although he is one of those murderous Dark Elves_.

Here, in Middle-earth, he did not need to fight that prejudice all the time. Whether Elves, Men or Dwarves, as soon as they understood that he was _not_ some strange kind of Orc (an understandable, albeit insulting mistake), they accepted him and cared only for his deeds, not for his origins.

He could have chosen to live among any of them. The Elves saw kinfolk in him, the Dwarves valued him as one of those rare Elves who could appreciate their skills and bravery, the Men of Dale saw their personal hero in him. It was strange… so strange that sometimes he wondered whether it was just a dream, born from the delusions of a too long, too lonely existence.

But if it _was_ a dream, it was the best one he had ever had. He hoped he would never wake up from it.

“I shall return to honour you, my Lord Prince,” he promised, and Prince Bard seemed supremely content with that promise.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the evening of the next day, the mounted warriors of Dale, allowed to chase after the fleeing Easterlings, returned to the town. They were a bit battered but they had not lost any more men; and they brought back a great deal of excellent Khimmer weapons with them. Together with what had been left behind by the attacking troops, the bronzesmiths of Dale would have enough work for the rest of the year.

Prince Meilyr, who had been working with Drudwas ap Aeddan on making lists of the losses of lives and valuables, gladly interrupted that grim duty to come down to the Gate and listen to their report.

“We followed them as far as we could,” explained Cuhelyn ap Dafydd, “but we did not want to get further than the confluence of the River Running and the Redwater. The war might be won, but who knows what evil creatures still linger among the stony hills of Rhûn and in the woods in-between. The Tribe of the White Kine is beaten for good and in disgrace in the eyes of their own people, though; they will not bother us again, for a long time. And we are needed here, are we not?”

“More than ever,” replied the Prince Regent. “You chose well. Now, get inside the walls, bathe, eat and rest; you deserve it, and your families have missed you. Your wife more than all,” he added, looking at Cuhelyn, who was married to Sir Anarawd’s daughter, Aline. They were expecting their first child any day now.

Theirs was a marriage that had raised Cuhelyn’s standing a great deal, as not only was Sir Anarawd a landed nobleman but also the father of the lady Melangell, the future Queen of Dale. And while it was true that differences in standing were less important in Dale than, say, in Gondor, ‘twas no small thing for a man of common birth to become kin by marriage to the King himself; not even if he came from a family that had given the town excellent warriors for many generations.

Cuhelyn thanked his Prince and hurried home to his wife. They lived in Master Dafydd’s house, as it was Cuhelyn’s to inherit, him being the firstborn son (although not the oldest child). He found, to his delight, that his father had been released from the Healing House with a heavily bandaged leg but was moving around well enough with the help of a pair of crutches. Their mother had managed to bring the house to some semblance of order again, preparing for the birth of the child that would come, soon.

Cuhelyn’s unwed brothers, who lived with them still, were not at home. Deiniol, also a member of the Gate Guard, was on duty, and Cynan, a stone-mason, was helping with the repairs somewhere in town. But their only sister, Dwywach, had come over to help. She was a Master Weaver, just like their mother, and had married a rich cloth-merchant a few years earlier. As a mother of two already, she knew well what had to be done in such times.

 _We have been very fortunate_ , thought Cuhelyn, greeting each and every one of the family heartily. True, his father had an ugly wound and would not be able to carry out his duties to the town for quite some time yet, but at least they were all alive. Few families could say the same from themselves – and perchance even fewer would be able to do so once the day was over.

Three hundred of the townspeople had been taken to the salt caves. That was a frighteningly high number for such a small kingdom. But worse yet, two hundred more were lying severely wounded on hay and straw in the barracks that had been turned into a field hospice when the Healing House became too crowded to serve its function for all. There was no knowing how many of those would survive their grave injuries.

The thought left Cuhelyn no peace. After having ensured himself that Aline would not deliver their child in the next few hours, he bathed, ate something, then put on fresh clothes and went down to the barracks to see how those poor wretches were doing. He owed them that much, more so as his father, the Weapons Master, whose duty it would originally have been, was in no shape to do so yet.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The barracks offered a terrible sight. While they had been fighting, they had only noticed the dead and the dying around them. No-one had thought about what might become of the wounded – there had simply been no time for that. But now, after the defeat of the enemy, Cuhelyn had to face the horrible inheritance of the siege.

Like that poor man who had lost both eyes and most of his face, lying in the second row, with his teeth clearly visible through the small gap in the blood-stained bandages wrapped tightly around his entire head. That one would not live long, and that would be a blessing for him, thought Cuhelyn. One could live with only one leg, like several of those wounded in the third row (unless the wound got infected), or with only one arm, as his own case proved, but what should a poor man do without a face? What woman, even among the widows, would want him, no matter what a good, decent man he might be? He would have to hide from everyone’s sight and die alone, abandoned and miserable. Nay, it was better for him to die now – Cuhelyn only hoped that Master Arawn would help him to a gentle death.

In the fourth row he discovered Chad ap Custennin, the widowed toymaker’s only son. The lad, he remembered, was less than sixteen, a highly skilled woodcarver, hoping to learn his father’s trade. He would never do so now; both his arms ended in tightly bandaged stumps just below his elbows. Amazingly enough, he did not seem to despair, though.

“My father will carve wooden hands for me,” he said, nodding at the saddened, greying man sitting at his pallet. “I will never become a toymaker, true. But I will be able to bend a bow still. I can be still useful and I will not need to beg for a living. Who knows, I might even find a wife – _you_ have, after all.”

Cuhelyn restrained himself from pointing out the differences. Why take the hope from the young man, if it helped him to keep a hold on his life? A quick glance at the toymaker’s face revealed that the older man shared Cuhelyn’s doubts but did not want to shatter his son’s hopes, either. After all, what else but hope had the poor lad left? They should be grateful that he tried to make the best of what was a truly horrible situation.

Thus Cuhelyn smiled, spoke words of encouragement he did not truly believe himself, and then continued his round, doing the same for the others who had no-one to sit with them. At the end, he was so tired he could barely stand on his trembling feet.

“You should sit down for a moment, Captain,” said someone in strangely accented Westron, and two strong hands grabbed him, helping him to an empty stool. Looking up, he recognized with mild surprise Bannâtha, the Mordvin slave whom Prince Meilyr’s men had captured in the Easterling camp during their first sortie.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Helping,” said the man simply. “I am strong, I am unhurt, and there are enough tasks that do not require the skills of a healer. I wanted to repay a little of King Brand’s kindness towards me.”

“Are you staying with us, then?” asked Cuhelyn, remembering that the King had offered the man the chance.

Bannâtha nodded. “I would like to. I must go to Esgaroth first, to see what has become of my people who were captured in the first battle, but I believe most of us will choose to stay. Whether Sigurrd Jarl manages to escape home or not, we have naught to go back for. We were less than cattle in Rhûn, and what family some of us had, will be slain for our failure to protect our masters. Here we can be _people_.”

“And a welcome people, too, considering our heavy losses,” said Cuhelyn in agreement.

“We hope to prove our usefulness,” answered Bannâtha respectfully. “You should go home, Captain. You are tired; and you cannot do more than you have already done. Tomorrow you will be needed again.”

Cuhelyn was reluctant to leave, but he had to admit that the other man was right. He made one last round in that barrack, speaking to one or another of the wounded encouragingly, wishing a restful night and fast recovery to those who were lucid enough to understand, and then left to return to his family.

Aline was still awake when he entered their bedchamber but did not reproach him for having left. She was the daughter of the commander of Dale’s knights; she had learned early that sometimes the aftermath of battle made men restless. She had learned not to interfere how they dealt with the aftermath, as there was no help she could have offered.

But she had also learned to offer comfort when they were finally able to accept it, and Cuhelyn had never felt safer in her arms before.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was late night when the Prince Regent and his wife returned to their bedchambers, too. They were both tired and hurting – from the long fight, from their wounds and bruises, and from the grief over having lost their King. But they could not grieve, not yet. ‘Til the coronation of Prince Bard, Dale was their responsibility, and theirs alone. And there was so much to do, so much to heal. Their personal griefs and losses had to wait.

‘Twas a good thing that Meilyr had been born first, the Lady Eilonwy thought while preparing herself for a night’s rest. Young Bard would make a great King in peacetime, but he was too gentle a soul, too much like his grandsire, King Bain, whose rule had not faced any greater challenge than a year of bad harvest. Bard was a good warrior – as the King’s heir, he had to be – but he would have suffered too deeply from the harsh decisions needed to be made after such a brutal siege. 'Twas fortunate that he had chosen such a strong woman for a wife as Melangell ferch Anarawd. She would support him well.

Still, there was enough time ‘til Midsummer – the only other day aside from Midwinter when a King of Dale could be crowned – for Meilyr to deal with the worst that the siege had left behind. _Meilyr_ was, as the Dwarves sometimes said, the true heir of Bard the Bowman; he had the same strength and determination as his great-grandsire, the dragon slayer - although, they added laughing, he was less grave and sour. 

He would make a great King, greater than young Bard could ever dream of becoming, but Eilonwy knew he did not envy his brother the throne. Being the King came with restrictions, and Meilyr liked his freedom. He preferred to serve his people from _behind_ the throne, as a counsellor and a warlord if needed, which allowed him to lead a life of his own at the same time. That was something Eilonwy agreed with completely. She did not want to become the Queen either. All she wanted was to live in peace and raise a family, as people did in peacetime. And now, though at such a terrible price, they _would_ have peace.

Despite all recent losses, that thought comforted her greatly.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, there will be footnotes – sorry, but they are necessary.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 20**

Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter was among the last people in Esgaroth to learn about the fortunate outcome of the war – not quite surprisingly, as she had been visiting the small merchant town named Birka(1) at the southernmost corner of the Long Lake, near the falls. Birka, originally a small settlement of the Northmen who had wandered southwards to find a better living, had grown into a fortified town after the coming of the Dragon, when many people fled from destroyed Dale and Esgaroth and found refuge there. Even some clans of the elusive Woodmen had sought the safety of its earthen walls since Orcs, Wargs, Giant Spiders and other foul creatures had begun to infest Mirkwood in ever-increasing numbers and life in the forest became too dangerous for their families.

As a result Birka had a colourfully mixed population, each people adding their skills and gifts to the greater good of the town. The great majority were the farmers, of course; they grew food, mostly buckwheat, which the Northmen favoured most of all sorts of grain, and they kept a peculiar breed of cattle: somewhat smaller than regular cattle, with round heads and wool finer, longer and thicker than any sheep could have(2). It was a rare breed, known only in the north of Rhovanion; the Northmen called it the _jakk_. Aside from the fine wool, the good-natured beasts also produced thick, yellowish milk, of which the Northmen made good, salty cheese and butter. Not even the bulls had any horns, but they did fight nonetheless, clashing their thick skulls together.

The fishermen, also a large group of the town’s population, were mostly former Woodmen, who had brought that skill from their previous life. The refugees from Esgaroth majorly worked as boatmen and boat-makers, rope-makers and carpenters – practically all the wooden longhouses seaming the lakeside were built by their hands, and most of the farm houses, too. Finally, the refugees from Dale were craftsmen and merchants. As a merchant town, Birka offered a good target for all sorts of raiders, so they had their own warriors, the Harbour Guards, to protect ships and wares and town, although all men knew how to wield at least the axe and the long knife, and many – especially the Men of Dale and the Woodmen – were excellent archers, too. The Guards even had some Easterlings among them: the progeny of poor families who had fled from the harsh lands of Rhûn many generations previously.

During the tyranny of the Dragon, Birka had grown in importance, especially where trade was involved. It had two natural and a man-made harbour, where the merchant ships from Laketown (and later those from Dale rebuilt) could moor at the long wooden jetties to restock their supplies ere continuing their journey to the South. Sometimes even the slower, heavier barges of Rhûn sailed up the River Running to trade with the merchants of Birka. The _Tribe of the Sea Hound_ , which dwelt on the southern shores of the Sea of Rhûn, was particularly interested in trading with the peoples of the North.

Of course they, too, had the typical Easterling tendency to simply take what they wanted, thus the Harbour Guards had to keep an eye on them all the time. But things between them and the locals worked out well enough in the long run; more so as Khimmer chieftains usually cared very little about the skirmishes of any other tribe. Just because Siltric Silkbeard and his closest allies had chosen to make war on Dale and Esgaroth – and on the Dwarves – on behalf of Mordor’s Dark Lord, it did not necessarily mean that Oddvarr Jarl, son of Beow, grandson of Heafdane the Great himself, would have to follow him… or that he should cease to trade with Birka. Easterlings could be fairly reasonable people, unless the battle madness came over them. Battle and glory were one thing – admittedly, an important one – business was a vastly different one.

Thus it was not surprising that when Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter arrived in Birka, less than a week after the first encounter between the Lakemen and Gotharr Jarl at the _Goblin’s Den_ , she found Nykvest Oddvarrsson and his men in town, bargaining for wool, buckwheat, honey from the Beornings, fruits (mostly preserved ones, as they would not survive fresh the long way to the Sea of Rhûn), wooden items and a great deal of other things. In exchange, the Easterlings offered bronze jewellery set with precious stones, iron weapons and tools, wolf- and bearskins and things carved of walrus ivory. Those were the most precious things they had to offer, as this huge beast only lived in the Sea of Rhûn… aside from the Northern meres, that is. Nykvest had a beautiful barge, made by the boot-makers of Birka some ten years earlier, and he apparently intended to return home with its belly filled with wares.

Yrsa’s father, although originally from Laketown, owned several farms near Birka, where large _jakk_ herds were bred, and a longhouse right on the shore, with its own jetty leading directly to the warehouse in its cellar. He was a wool-merchant whose tenants produced his main trading item in great amounts, although he also traded in cheese, honey, animal hides and wine. He chose to live in Birka, for this was where his late wife had come from – she had been of the Northmen and passed away a few years earlier – and his widowed sister-in-law and her daughters took good care of him. He also had a two-storey townhouse in Esgaroth, which became the home of Yrsa, who lived and worked there with her maids and servants on her own.

The _Guild Merchant_ of Esgaroth accepted women in their rolls, and Yrsa was a Master Weaver, the head of her guild… not only due to her considerable skills, but also because she was the heiress of her father who would one day inherit his farms and all his wealth. For the lack of a brother, she had to learn the art and the tricks of trading early on, so that she would not be cheated out of her wealth, and she was very good at it – as long as she could do it all from the background. She was painfully shy with people she did not know very well; a fact based on her unfortunate looks.

No-one knew what had gone wrong in her childhood… how she had become so enormous in girth as she had grown into adulthood. Both Northmen and Lakemen tended to be heavy-set and stockily built, and Yrsa’s parents were certainly no exception, but she had gone way beyond the average, even more so than her aunt. By now, approaching her fortieth summer, people had got used to her appearance, but she had suffered so much teasing, so many cruel jokes in her youth that she preferred to stay in her house whenever she could and only go among other people if she could not avoid doing so.

Her work was renowned for its excellence and much sought after. Her skills kept the business running smoothly and steadily, providing a dozen women in Laketown with work, from carding through spinning to weaving. Her wealth, including that which she would inherit one day, was envied by many, and no-one questioned her place among the leaders of the _Guild Merchant_. Yet all this was not enough to give her what even the lowliest cottager’s wife, the simplest serving wench could have: a husband, and children of her own.

Oh, there were enough penniless adventurers – useless skirt-chasers, all of them – who would have wedded her to get their hands on her coin. But she was shrewd and proud enough to avoid such pitfalls that would only lead to the loss of her wealth and to endless humiliation. She accepted her fate and she was, if not exactly happy, at least well content with her life. She just did not like to deal with new people; to see either disgust or pity in their eyes.

More than anything else did she hate dealing with the Easterlings, who treated women like cattle at the best of times. But there were times that she could not avoid it. Her father was getting elderly, and while he could still keep his own tenants well under control, dealing with the shrewd and ruthless Easterlings was slowly getting beyond his skills. Besides, Nykvest Oddvarrsson wanted to buy that special cloth made for wall hangings – the one with animal shapes like stags, moose, wolves or bears woven into it – so beloved by his people, and as Yrsa was the most skilled weaver producing that cloth, she needed to be present, so that they would get the right price for it,

Oddvarr Jarl’s heir, a thickset, russet-haired young man in his early thirties, had clearly dressed to impress and to show off the wealth and importance of his legendary bloodline. He wore two tunics, one over the other. His knee-length, red wool undertunic was trimmed at the neck, wrists, and hem with beautiful wool tablet-weaving, patterned with beasts of the highlands of Rhûn in yellow, red, and black. The cuffs were secured with silver wrist clasps set with red stones. 

His overtunic was also made of wool, in royal blue, decorated at the neck with tablet-woven wool bands patterned with animals in yellow and red. This overtunic was open on the front almost all the way down, not unlike a cape, and held together by silver clasps. Narrow trousers of red wool patterned with yellow – rather unusual for Khimmer warriors who preferred baggy pants – complemented the overtunic, with finely made, goatskin ankle shoes.

He also had an elaborate lightweight rectangular cloak with fringed edges thrown loosely about his broad shoulders. It was red plaid with blue and yellow stripes. At the edges were tablet-woven bands of blue with beasts in yellow and red. A ring-headed silver cloakpin set with red stones held the beautiful cloak in its place. His elegant belt was made out of silk samite decorated with a hanging fringe of silver-wire knotwork. Instead of a helmet or a hat, he wore a metal-brocaded, tablet-woven fillet called the _hlað_ among the Easterlings(3).

There could be no doubt that the _Tribe of the Sea Hound_ was the most refined one of all Khimmer tribes, and it showed clearly in the pomp of their appearance. Barbarian pomp it might be, but it was pomp nonetheless. Keeping out of the wars as far as possible and cultivating a thriving trade relationship with Khand and Near-Harad instead apparently paid off.

“We are an old tribe, yet a small one,” explained Nykvest Oddvarrsson after emptying the second drinking horn of excellent mead that had been offered him by Yrsa’s father; making business with Easterlings _always_ involved a great deal of drinking, which was the reason why Yrsa had to be there. Her father could not hold his mead as he once used to. “The Dark Lord never cared much about us; besides he needed us to do the trade for him. In exchange, he left us alone.”

“What about the other tribes?” asked Brinningr. “Do they not envy your wealth and your peace?”

“Our wealth, surely,” replied Nykvest, “but peace is not something a true Khimmer warrior would ever wish for. Most of us desire an honourable death in battle, so that they would be honoured by the ancestors in the afterlife.”

“And your tribe does not wish for the same?” wondered Brinningr.

“Most certainly we do,” laughed Nykvest, “but we are not in such great hurry to die. We wish to live first, and live well. We still can die honourably _after_ we have tasted the fullness of life. And now that your people have beaten Siltric Silkbeard’s tribe for good, we shall no longer have to egg-dance between the two main powers to survive. Ragnar the Smith is a wise lord. There may be other chieftains who will rise and challenge his right to the kingship over all Rhûn – or the right of his son Ingolf to follow him – but he knows neither my father nor myself are among those. And that we shall support him.”

“You will?” asked Brinningr, a little doubtfully. Khimmer chieftains made no faithful vassals as a rule. Their own glory and power (not to mention wealth) was always more important for them.

Nykvest nodded. “Of course. Having a King means order, and order is good for the trade. There will be wars again, surely – there always are – but Ragnar will keep them outside Rhûn. The _Tribe of the Bear_ will gain kingship, lead the warriors and fight the wars… and _our_ tribe will thrive.”

“You seem fairly sure of yourselves,” commented Brinningr, echoing Yrsa’s secret thoughts.

“And I have every reason to do so,” answered Nykvest with calm self-confidence. “My father has negotiated for me to get one of Ragnar’s own daughters as my wife. Even though she is but a by-blow, it would make me kin to the royal clan.”

“I thought you already _had_ a wife,” said Brinningr with a frown. “Several wives, in fact.”

Nykvest shook his head. “Nay, we only have one proper wife,” he said. “The others – and indeed, I have got four of such – are only women to serve our needs. They are called co-wives, true, but they have no wives’ rights and are little more than slaves.”

“Are they getting buried with their masters like common slave girls, too?” asked Thorvard, one of the local merchants and owner of a fine ship with ten hands, who had come to Brinningr’s house to take part in the trade negotiations.

He was a big, bearded, straw-haired Lakeman who had to flee Esgaroth some fourteen years earlier for nearly killing his older brother during a drunken brawl. He had made himself a good life in Birka, as his fine silver-grey garment and gilded belt showed. Currently, he was courting Ursla, Yrsa’s youngest cousin, who was at least twenty years younger but not averse to his affections.

Nykvest gave him a coldly amused look. “Even proper wives get buried with their husbands, should these be ranking jarls,” he replied. “’Tis a custom not followed among merchants, but among warriors, that is the law.”

“And what about the orphaned children?” asked Thorvard. “What will become of them?”

The Easterling shrugged. “They will be raised by an uncle... or whoever the closest male relative is. From the age of twelve we are supposed to care for ourselves anyway.”

“In that case, a great many women will be slaughtered in Rhûn, once tidings of Siltric’s defeat reach your lands,” commented Eoin the Drake, Yrsa’s uncle. He was an archer and leather-worker; an enormously fat man with a russet beard and thinning hair, now present as the head of the _Leatherers’ Guild_ in Birka.

“Nay,” answered Nykvest, “for all those warriors have fallen in a battle that they _lost_. ‘Tis _not_ an honourable death, thus they will not need their household and their treasures in the afterlife. At least those fallen during the siege of Dale have earned themselves proper funerals. The others will not be so fortunate. Skalds will sing about their shame for generations.”

“But you and your tribe will emerge on the side of the victorious,” said Eoin with barely veiled sarcasm, “as you have wisely avoided to go to this war.”

“Indeed, we will,” replied Nykvest with a content grin; Eoin’s sarcasm had failed to reach him in the first place. “And I shall build a great hall for me and my wife at the seashore; a hall that will make people stare at it with open-mouthed awe.”

“So that is what you need the wall-hangings for,” exclaimed Brinningr.

Nykvest nodded. “When my father brought home my mother from the North – she was from the _Tribe of the Elk_ , daughter of a rich and famous chieftain – he raised a great hall in Hjardarholt, our ancient home; a hall larger and more beautiful than even the oldest skalds have ever seen. The walls and the ceiling were carved with scenes of old legends; they say ‘twas more beautiful than as if they would have been covered with wall hangings.”

“What has become of that hall?” asked Thorvard.

“It was burned down by raiders of a hostile tribe when I was nine,” answered Nykvest with a shrug. “My mother died in the fire, and thus my father never had the hall rebuilt. Said it was her funeral pyre, although women are not given to the fire as a rule.”

“But now you want to rebuild it anyway,” said Thorvard.

“Nay,” said Nykvest, “I want to build a different one. With proper wall hangings that keep the hall warmer and cheer one up with their bright colours on a rainy day.”

“Well, then, you have come to the right place for the best cloth,” said Brinningr. “Yrsa, my dove, bring forth your samples.”

The Easterling gave Yrsa a slightly surprised look – apparently, he had completely forgotten about her presence, if indeed he had noticed her in the first place. Yrsa wished she were a man, or, at least, one of those infamous _valkyrie_ , so that she could punch him in the nose for disregarding her like that. But she knew that she could not afford to be rude to such an important trade partner, thus she swallowed her pride and spread her samples with the help of her maid Gitte all over the long trestle table that had been previously cleaned for this very purpose.

The Easterling gave a low whistle, and as he looked at her again, there was something akin to respect in his eyes, for the samples were singularly beautiful indeed. Aside from the simple cloth woven with animal patterns, there were true woven tapestries as well, depicting old legends and ancient battles, hunting scenes and the images of ships sailing into harbour, merry feasts and much, much more. Very few weavers could do such awesome work, and certainly none in Rhûn.

“Can she weave into a cloth any scene I might want to adorn my hall?” asked the Easterling.

Brinningr, at whom the question had been aimed, shrugged. “Ask her yourself. She is a master of her craft, and the head of the _Weavers’ Guild_. She can tell you what can be done and how long it will take.”

That seemed not to bode well with Nykvest Oddvarrsson, but Brinningr simply looked at him with a smug expression upon his broad, bearded face. Thus he had no other choice than to speak with a mere woman – and a foreign one at that!

“If you wish no more complicated scenes than these, and no more than four or five different colours used, then aye, I can make such a tapestry in three to four moons,” said Yrsa, unable to suppress her grim satisfaction over the Easterling’s discomfort.

“And would it go faster if you had others work on them with you?” asked Nykvest, not quite happy with the time needed.

Yrsa shook her head. “That I shall not do. Not with tapestries; ‘tis delicate work, and mistakes could ruin the entire hanging. You want them flawless for that great hall of yours, do you not? Then I must weave them alone.”

“Very well,” Nykvest sighed impatiently. “What about the motifs, though? How will you make sure that you get done what I wanted?”

Yrsa asked Gitte to bring her several large sheets of parchment and a piece of charcoal. After the maid had taken away the samples, she spread the first parchment on the desk.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, “and I will draw the pattern. You can see that way what they will look like when finished.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They worked on the drafts ‘til sunset. The Easterling seemed very satisfied with the drafts, and when he left Yrsa had an order for six large wall hangings – about two years’ worth of hard work. She was quite pleased with the results, though, above all with the price she had haggled out with the young jarl. The first payment alone would feed her household for at least half a year, and with her weavers doing the mundane daily work, she would be able to focus on the complicated pattern. She loved a good challenge and knew that if done well, those hanging would bring her fame… and even more orders. Khimmer jarls dearly loved to outdo each other in just about everything.

After sunset, the whole family gathered in Brinningr’s house to celebrate the newly won peace as well as the business they had made with the Easterlings. They were a colourful mix of people, representing almost every race that ever lived in Birka. Although usually Thórfinna, the widow of Yrsa’s uncle Brecca was the one to run the household with the help of her daughters Lydda and Ursla, this time Uncle Eoin insisted on preparing the _náttmál_ (4) with his own hands. He was an excellent cook, actually, dedicated to both preparing the food and devouring it (through which he had earned his byname)… if he could be bothered to enter the _sodhús_ (5) at all, that is.

Tonight he _was_ willing, though, and he cooked an excellent barley porridge with crushed hazelnuts, garlic, onions and chopped pork, which they ate with freshly baked barley flat bread, made by Lydda in the afternoon. Then he served his famous chicken stew with beer, prepared after a time-honoured recipe of his grandmother, and served with honey-glazed root vegetables, such as turnips, carrots and cabbages. Finally, he dished up the much-beloved _bláber_ pancakes, which they ate with _styr_ (6).

All in all, it was a very delicious, not to mention filling meal, and they were all content afterwards, sitting around the table and drinking a cup of mead or two to make the evening a perfect one.

“Is it true, then, that Mordor has fallen and the war is won?” asked Brinningr after his second cup, when he was capable of speaking again.

The question was aimed at Leif Viggaskaldr, a stocky, round-faced nobleman with a short beard, just this side of fifty. Leif had taken Bestla, the much younger half-sister of Yrsa’s late mother as his second wife (having lost the first one to childbirth), and thus he belonged to Brinningr’s kinfolk. His family of lesser nobles originated from Dale but had fled to Birka after the coming of the Dragon. Both Leif and his cousin, Gunnar the Boar, were also knights of Dale by inherited right, well-trained in the use of several weapons and shared the responsibility for Birka’s defence. They were also among the richest land-owners in town, with farms and ships by the dozens to their names, and entitled to wear their own devices.

Due to his position, Leif was best-suited to know everything about the war… and he was willing to share his knowledge.

“According to the messengers, the siege of Dale has finally been lifted, thanks to the help of the Dwarves from the Iron Hills,” he answered. “’Twas a horrible battle they say; Dale has lost more than three hundred men and women, including the Lakemen, the Elves and the Dwarves that had come to their aid. From the Easterlings, mayhap a few dozen could escape with their lives. Some have been captured – mostly Mordvin slaves, mind you – but the great majority is dead. Thousands of them.”

“War is such a terrible thing,” his wife added in a simpering voice that was continually grating on everyone’s nerves. “We have been fortunate that we were spared.”

Yrsa shot her aunt an annoyed look. She could never understand how Leif had been able to wed such a silly, spoiled cow, no matter how many farms had she brought into the marriage. As the only, late-born child from Grandfather Hondshew’s second marriage, Bestla had always fancied herself to be something special. Unlike her hard-working brothers and sister, she never learned a craft, and was very taken with her current status as the wife of a nobleman – something that was extremely rare in both Birka and Laketown. Only the Men of Dale had any sort of nobility in Rhovanion. 

And she was not even beautiful to grace her husband’s halls and justify somehow her useless existence. Like her half-brother Eoin (or Yrsa herself, if she wanted to be honest), she was enormously fat. The fine garments in Dale fashion that she preferred did not help to conceal that fact… or that she could not be bothered to even braid her hair properly. As much as she delighted to be the lady of a noble household, she seemed to have no idea how she should behave according to her status. Yrsa and her cousins disliked Bestla very much and called her Beastly behind her back.

Even Leif seemed to have taken offence at his wife’s stupid comment… which was small wonder, considering that he still had kinfolk in Dale and therefore was hit hard by the harsh news.

“Had we not been needed to organize Birka’s defence, both Gunnar and I would have hurried to aid the town of our forefathers,” he stated flatly. “Do try to be a little less selfish, dear… or a little more reasonable. Had Dale fallen, the Easterlings would have first burned down Esgaroth, and then wiped our little town from the lakeshore without breaking a sweat. You do not truly believe they would have spared us, do you?”

“Why not?” asked Bestla stupidly. “They are our allies, after all.”

“They _trade_ with us for mutual advantage, and even that just a small tribe of them,” corrected Leif with forced patience. “Had Siltric Jarl succeeded at Dale, Nykvest Oddvarrsson would have led the attack on Birka himself, to seize our town as his own. That is their way, and it will not change easily, not even if they accept a King to rule over all the chieftains.”

“True enough,” agreed Brinningr. “But at least the war is over, is it not? So we can breathe again for a while… can we?”

Leif nodded. “I hope so. Apparently, an Elven host came up on swan-boats from the Golden Wood around the end. They joined forces with King Thranduil of Mirkwood and tore down the fell tower of Dol Guldur to its foundations. Hopefully, in time the forest, too, will be cleaned of evil things, and mayhap the Old Dwarf-Road repaired and opened for trade routes again. There is still much to do, but the greatest evil has been overthrown forever, and we can look forward to a better future.”

“Did Esgaroth suffer any damage?” asked Yrsa. “’Tis sad enough that many of our people have fallen in battle; having our homes damaged, too, would be terrible. Our wooden houses are so much more vulnerable than the stone buildings in Dale.”

“Esgaroth was not directly attacked,” reassured her Leif. “There are losses, true – I heard that one of the _drakkars_ was burned and another one took heavy damage – but the town itself is unharmed. When are you planning to return?”

“Early in the morn,” said Yrsa. “I have left the workshop unattended to for too long already. My workers are good, honest people, but they grow lazy if they cannot feel my eyes in their backs all the time.”

“Mayhap you should reconsider,” warned Leif. “There will be strong winds in the morn, the fishermen say; perchance even a storm.”

Yrsa shook her head. “Nay, I must go home. I have got a strong ship, and Iskjald Holgersson is the best boatman in town. We will manage.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morn Yrsa rose at sunrise. Lydda and Ursla helped her to store the parchment draft in tightly-woven linen sacks first and in good, waterproof leather bags afterwards. They also brought forth the strongbox with Nykvest Oddvarrsson’s coin in it. That would be later fastened with iron clamps to the single mast of the ship, so that it would not end up in the Lake by accident. With their ships not having cabins at all, this was the only way to keep valuables safe.

Yrsa’s ship, built by her late uncle Brecca, reminded one of a _drakkar_ at first sight, but was smaller: only sixty feet long, with a twelve-foot mast and a draft about three feet. Twelve oarsmen were enough to row it, as it was light, fast and versatile. These small vessels were called the _karve_ , or just _karv_ in some places, and were meant mainly to transport people rather than wares across the Long Lake and upon the River Running.

The harbour of Birka offered a beautiful sight, seamed with the wooden longhouses of the wealthy, each with its own jetty stretching out far into the crystal clear water of the Lake, and the graceful ships with their long, curved necks, shaped in the likeness of serpents or dragons, mooring at them. Yrsa’s ship had a prow carved like a coiled serpent, while that of Thorvard, a few jetties away, had a dragon’s head on its prow.

Iskjald Holgersson, the captain of her ship, was preparing the beautiful little _karve_ for departure already. Son of a Northman carpenter and builder and a woman from Dale, Iskjald was big, blond and bearded, and he knew the ship and the Lake better than most.

He was also one of those who would have been willing to wed Yrsa for her wealth, and he made no secret of that intention. But while Yrsa found it useful to hire an adventurer and mercenary to captain her ship, she would not want one to lay hand on her coin. She _would_ have considered Iskjald’s older brother, Algmundr: a solid, reliable carpenter who had taken over and run successfully Holger Ilvarsson’s business, supporting their sister Ulldis with his earnings, but Algmundr had other interests… like Yrsa’s cousin Lydda. Besides, Yrsa did not intend to move to Birka for good, thus things would probably not have worked out anyway.

Iskjald spotted his mistress right when she left the house and came forth hurriedly to greet her. As a sometimes member of the Harbour Guards, he was wearing the baggy pants made of undyed wool preferred by the Northmen of Birka, with a grey jerkin, knee-high red woollen socks and soft-soled leather shoes that made moving aboard a ship easier. He also had a steel helmet, equipped with one of those strange-looking pieces that protected the wearer’s nose, his long braids hanging down to the middle of his back. His axe – a large, Khimmer-made one – and his big, round, red shield with a brass knob in its middle and the white symbols of the four winds adorning it, were leaning against the mast.

“Good morrow, Mistress,” he said respectfully, giving the maid Gitte the usual appreciating look… which was one of the reason Yrsa would never consider wedding him. She did not want a husband who would spend her coin but bed her maid. “Ready for the journey?”

“We are,” replied Yrsa, “but are you not concerned that a storm might come up, soon? They say there will be strong winds today.” As all Lakemen, she knew the risks of sailing upon the Lake as much as she knew its delight.

“That they will,” Iskjald nodded in agreement. “Yet I believe we shall ride them safely enough. ‘Tis not the first storm I will be facing… I know how to ride their crest.”

That was true enough, of course. Taken by Khimmer raiders as a young boy, Iskjald had spent fourteen years in the service of an Easterling merchant, sailing on the huge Sea of Rhûn in much worse storms than the Long Lake could ever brew, ere the family had managed to put together enough coin to buy him free. He knew his storms and was used to them.

“Very well, then,” said Yrsa, still a little doubtfully, but impatient to be on her way, “let us not waste any more time. I am eager to get home as soon as I can.”

She boarded the ship with Gitte. They stored the draft safely and fastened the strongbox to the mast. The boatmen drew up the red-and-white striped rectangular sail, and the _karve_ turned slowly into the wind. Yrsa’s family stood on the jetty, waving and wishing a safe journey, ‘til the ship vanished from sight.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For a while, it seemed that they would have smooth sailing the full way to Esgaroth, and Yrsa, who loved being on a ship, enjoyed the journey very much. Around the third hour of the day(7), however, dark clouds began to gather over the Lake, and a strong wind came up, so that they had to roll in the sail again and entrust the ship to the strength and the skill of the oarsmen alone.

Another hour later Eitri – a former Mordvin slave who had slain his cruel Khimmer master and fled to Birka some nineteen years earlier – came up to Iskjald with concern upon his bearded, hawkish face.

“I do not like this, Captain,” he said. “A violent storm is brewing thataway,” he vaguely gestured towards the dark clouds that had been gradually becoming darker and thicker in the last hour, “and the wind is driving them right in our direction.”

Iskjald looked at the clouds, then back at the Lake that seemed endless like the Sea, with Esgaroth nowhere in sight yet, and sighed.

“We need to help the oarsmen,” he decided. “’Tis a good thing that we have that pair of extra oars down below.”

And so they took to the oars themselves, and all men on board rowed frantically for the next two hours, without a break – ‘til, after the sixth hour(8), the storm caught up with them, in spite of their efforts.

What followed was a living nightmare of lightning, thunder, heavily falling rain and waves whipped up by the strong wind as high as a house… or higher. The little ship was dancing upon the waves like a nutshell, oars broke like dry twigs, good, strong rope snapped like thin silk thread. Everyone was drenched to their very skin and shivering with cold, and one after another, they began to understand that they might very well die out there, upon the raging Lake.

They were fortunate that the storm was, at least, driving them northwards, which had been their destination in the first place. But even so, there was little to no hope that the ship would remain in one piece… or would reach Esgaroth in this weather. They had no leak yet, but it was only a matter of time, and once the ship filled with water, they would drown.

“Captain!” called out Yrsa, trying to make herself heard among all that lightning and thunder and strong rain. “The ruins of the old town… they are much closer!”

“But they are a treacherous place… and built over the carcass of the Dragon!” howled Eitri, clearly frightened out of his mind. He was perchance the most superstitious one of all superstitious boatmen. Iskjald shot him a withering look.

“Would you rather _join_ the Dragon on the bottom of the Lake?” he asked; then he roared at the oarsmen. “To the old town, lads… and look out for those rotting pylons underneath!”

With a last, desperate effort, the oarsmen – well, those who still had their oars – tried to turn the ship to the West… or what they _thought_ was the West in any case… hoping that they would reach the shelter of the ruined old town ere the _karve_ would splinter under their feet and, hopefully, without crashing into those rotting pylons under the water. ‘Twas a risky plan, a desperate plan, but they had no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Birka is, of course, inspired by and named after the Viking city near Stockholm. Actually, this entire chapter was inspired by my recent trip to Stockholm. Go figure.  
> (2) Unlikely as it sounds, I really saw cattle like that while visiting Slovenia, and was looking for a chance to include them in a story. They looked fluffy and cute, but the bulls were a little aggressive.  
> (3) Nykvest’s clothing is based on that of the Jarl of Evebo, as found in his grave, with small alterations and additions.  
> (4) Night meal, consumed at the end of the day’s labour, as opposed to the first meal of the day, the _dagmál_ or day-meal, which was eaten in the morning, approximately two hours after the day’s work was started. Data found on the Viking Answer Lady’s website.  
>  (5) Special cooking house, used especially during the slaughtering period.  
> (6) _Bláber_ is the Icelandic word for bilberries, and _styr_ is a peculiar sort of fresh cheese, which, however, has the consistency and flavour or yoghurt.  
>  (7) Nine in the morning.  
> (8) Noontime.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The layout of ruined Laketown is based on the picture in Karen Fonstad’s Tolkien atlas. The boys were imprisoned in which had once been the Town Hall, in the southwestern corner of the town, near the quays.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 21**

They had been left alone in the ruined town for days by now. Razar had tired to keep track of the time by scratching marks with the sharp rim of his iron handcuffs on the rotting log of the wall, but hunger and thirst, together with the lung fever he had begun to develop, made it hard for his clouded mind to make a difference between day and night.

In his rare lucid moments he realized that he was going to die, soon. He was now the oldest of Master Turcaill’s “lads”, having spent almost eight summers in this wet and rotting prison. He had seen the others, older and stronger ones than himself, become sick and fevered and waste away. Soon after their strength had begun to fail they were gone, and so would be he, too, in no time, even though there was now no-one to throw him into the water as useless ballast. He was nineteen and would turn twenty in two moons, although he knew he would not live long enough to see that day. None of them would.

There had been eleven of them a few days ago, when “Uncle” Prostr – for so were they supposed to call their overseer – left them behind to die. Three of them were dead already: taken and devoured by the creatures of the Lake, and a fourth one, a little boy of barely ten, horribly wounded. One of those… _things_ had tried to eat him alive and bitten off one of his legs, right under the knee. Razar, whose chain was barely long enough to reach the boy, had managed to chase the creatures away by rattling his chains and howling as loudly as he could – for some reason, the things seemed to suffer from loud noises – and bound off the stump with the last rags he wore on his body. But they all knew the boy would not last long. He had lost a great deal of blood, they had naught to eat and could not reach the water to drink, and soon Razar would be too weakened to protect him any longer – to protect any of them.

The storm in the morning had not helped things. Razar had seen his fair share of storms on the Lake but never any that would come even close to that last one. The first violent wind had torn away a great part of the roof of the battered building that was their prison, and the heavy downpour of icy cold rain and lightning, as if it had rained both fire and water at the same time, rattled the pylons of the house dangerously. They had been charred by dragonfire once and had been rotting in the decades gone since then – after the storm they would not hold out much longer.

Unfortunately, the boys were chained to the still strong and stable beams of the building: the ones that had not given in yet. If what was left of the house collapsed, it would take them to the bottom of the Lake. That was all right with Razar, personally. He would prefer death to the return of “Uncle” Prostr and the continuation of those endless, trite days, kept in chains and half-starved and regularly beaten like an animal, diving for the jewels in the Dragon’s rotting corpse ten, twenty, forty times a day. Besides, he knew his lungs would not bear it much longer. A quick and merciful death would be preferable to starving… or being eaten by the creatures in the water.

But the others were still so young, barely more than children; and they were not sick yet. They could still have a good life, could they only free themselves and escape into the woods. Unlike the bleak, grassy hills of Rhûn, the forest around the Lake would surely be rich in berries and mushrooms and small animals that they could ensnare. If only he could teach the others how to make snares, as his eldest brother had taught him back home, many years ago!

But he knew he would not have the time for that. Even if they could free themselves – which they could _not_ – he was too far gone already to be of any use for the others.

In his fevered dreams, he sometimes saw his lost family. Not his parents, he could not remember them, for they had died by the hand of their Khimmer master when he had been but a small faunt. But he could still remember his eldest brother, thirteen summers older than him, who had raised him and two other brothers and a sister in their parents’ stead. One by one, their siblings had been sold to other masters, so that in the last two years only the two of them remained, for Kali, his brother’s wife, had been taken by their master and never returned. They had become very close… ‘til Razar, too, was sold and brought to this cruel place to die.

It would not take long, not anymore. The storm had departed over the Lake, and the creatures would return, soon… and they would be hungry, very hungry. He could almost hear the wet _tap-tap_ of their large, webbed feet and the low, gurgling sounds with which they talked among themselves. From the corner of his eye, he thought to see their small, sleek bodies, dark and shiny and sinuous like eels, wriggling onto the slippery foundation of the house. It seemed to him that more and more large, bulbous eyes were gleaming hungrily in the shadowy corners, as the creatures slipped through the trap door cut in the floor that led directly to the water.

Strangely enough, though, they did not approach… not yet. They tarried in the shadows, their eyes searching for some unnamed threat, their long-fingered hands twitching as they leaned on them like leapfrogs, ready to attack and yet not moving so far.

It took Razar a moment to understand why they were hesitating. There were voices outside, voices of men and at least one woman, speaking what “Uncle” Prostr called the Common Speech. They were still a little farther away, by the sound of them, but Razar was suddenly overcome by wild hope.

“Shout for help!” he called out to the others. “Rattle your chains… make as much noise as you can, quickly! There may be help out there.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It had been by the grace of _Gandvik_ alone – whom, Yrsa was told, the Elves called the Lord Ulmo, ruler of the waters – that Iskjald and his men had managed to steer the small ship free of the pitfalls of rotting wooden pylons under the foaming waters and somehow reached the south-eastern quays of the abandoned town where the ships had once moored. Even Yrsa and Gitte had grabbed the nearest oars to bring their vessel into the safety of the canal that passed under an arched tunnel that pierced the walkways and even a large building that had likely been a warehouse and led to the Market-Pool: a wide, near-rectangular circle of quiet water that had once served as the central marketplace of the old town. Many of its small jetties were broken or completely gone, but – protected as it still was by the half-ruined wooden buildings from all four sides – it was the safest place they could have hoped for, with the storm still raging on around them.

Outsiders would never have found the entrance of the channel and even less a safe path through it. But all Lakemen knew what the old town had been like. Even though thrice – or more – as big, Esgaroth had been built in the same manner… just on a different scale. If one knew his way around Esgaroth, he would find them around the old town as well.

The boatmen did their best to secure the ship to one of the still intact jetties with whatever rope they still had, and then Iskjald helped his Mistress and her maid onto the wet wooden platform upon which the entire town was built. The beams were dangerously slippery but solid enough; there was no need to fear that they would give in under their weight.

“We need shelter!” shouted the captain, so that he would be heard in spite of the thunder and the prattling of the heavy rain.

Yrsa nodded in agreement. “The Great Hall!” she called back, gesturing towards the largest building on the northern side of the Market-Pool. It seemed still strong and stable enough, although part of it had been smashed by the Dragon, and most of its roof was gone. They were some places left intact, though; they could sit out the storm there.

They sought refuge in the more or less intact part of the former feasting hall, soaked and shivering, but at least no longer exposed to the wrath of the storm. The men sat there with resigned faces; they were used to sitting out bad weather conditions with little to no protection on their ships. Though the storm was worse than anything most of them had ever faced, having a roof above their head was still an improvement.

Gitte, on the other hand, was miserable, simply miserable. She might be an indentured servant whose entire family had skittered into thralldom two generations earlier, but she was used to the comforts of serving in a wealthy home. Slavery, as it was practiced in the lands of Khand and Harad, was heavily frowned upon in Rhovanion, but thralldom was generally tolerated, more so if the thralls got into servitude for financial reasons. Such thralls – mostly born into their status already – had a much better fate on a rich farm or in a wealthy merchant’s or craftsman’s house, even though they had to work hard for their keeping, than they could have had on their own. ‘Twas a way to support the poor, and while it was not perfect, it had worked for the Lakemen and for the town of Birka well enough for hundreds of years.

So aye, Gitte, albeit a mere thrall, was fairly spoiled as a maid of the household, and thus decidedly – and _very_ vocally – unhappy about her personal situation. She bemoaned her ruined clothes that might never be the same again, not even after going over them with the steaming iron. She complained about hunger and thirst, and even more about the cold, although Eitri had generously offered her his heavy woollen cloak. She whimpered every time lightning cracked across the darkened sky above them, and curled up wailing whenever the thunder rolled over the house.

For a while, Yrsa tolerated her antics with the patience of an adult towards the hysterics of a frightened child. ‘Twas not Gitte’s fault, after all, that she had been so spoiled; her Master, and later her young Mistress, had always liked her, for she was pretty and cheerful and agreeable, if a bit daft sometimes. One could not expect from her to behave like a responsible adult in such a crisis when it had never been asked of her before.

Besides, Yrsa had other concerns at the moment. The drafts or the wall-hangings – the detailed patterns for the next two years’ work – were still in the belly of the ship, which was most likely filled with water by now. As long as the storm raged on, they could not risk trying to bail it from the vessel; the charcoal drawings were perchance already ruined. She hoped she would be able to redo them from memory; Nykvest Oddvarrsson wanted rather well-known Khimmer legends depicted on the walls of his future hall and seemed to prefer the traditional representations. It was doable, although it would require time and would delay the actual work. She would have to work late hours to catch up.

What concerned her even more was the condition of her ship. Hopefully, there would be no irreparable damage; but even so, it would cost a considerable amount of coin. Just replacing the lost oars and ropes would be costly, and she remembered having seen the mast snap near the root. If her strongbox got lost with the broken piece of the mast, that would be disastrous. She _was_ wealthy, but not so rich that she could have easily given up on half a year’s earnings; even less so if she had to sacrifice most of her savings to have the ship repaired. Unless they managed to retrieve the strongbox somehow, the next few moons would be very hard on her and her household.

‘Twas strange how one’s good fortune could turn into the opposite in a mere few hours.

Gitte was still moaning and whining next to her and finally, burdened by her own concerns, Yrsa snapped.

“You are not the only one who is freezing and hungry,” she said in such a harsh tone that the men looked up in surprise, not used to it from their even-tempered Mistress. “Be quiet already, or so Gandvik help me, I will send you to my father’s smallest, dirtiest farm to work with the calving _jakk_ cows and spend the rest of your life cleaning up the blood and gore after them!”

Her icy tone revealed that she was _not_ making empty threats, and Gitte shut her pretty mouth in horror, curling up under Eitri’s heavy, though wet cloak, making herself as small as possible. The men exchanged worried looks, and Iskjald rose and walked over to their Mistress, crouching down before her.

“Are you all right, Mistress?” he asked in a low voice, and for the first time since they had known each other, there was honest concern in that question.

“Nay,” replied Yrsa with the same honesty. “I am cold and I am hungry and very frightened. In near forty summers, I have never seen a storm like this. I am worried about the ship, and I am worried that the strongbox might be lost, and I would not be able to give my workers their well-earned payment. I cannot bear Gitte’s childish whining right now. ‘Tis time for her to grow up a little.”

“She is only frightened,” said Iskjald placatingly.

Yrsa gave him a bitter look. “And pretty girls are so endearing when scared, are they not?” she asked. “Unfortunately, _I cannot_ afford to whimper in a corner, waiting for someone else to help me out of my tight spot. As soon as the storm lessens, we shall have to look what we can do for the ship… or how to get help, if it is no longer fit to dare the Lake.”

Iskjald nodded. “Mayhap one of the _faering_ s can be salvaged,” he said. “They were secured deep within the ship, well-protected. If at least one of them is still there, we can send four men to Esgaroth for help – should the ship not be seaborne.”

“We should take a look around here, too,” suggested Eitri, joining them, “and set up watches. Who knows what kinds of creatures have made this place their home since it was abandoned.”

Iskjald rolled his eyes. “I doubt that either Wargs or Giant Spiders would choose to make their den here,” he said, “and Orcs, should any of them find their way here from Dol Guldur, are known to hate water.”

“Aye, but they _can_ cross it if they have to,” said Guthri, one of the oarsmen; a wiry, rugged-faced Woodman with a shaggy brown beard. He was a rather wild fellow who preferred the rough green garb of his own people to the clothes usually worn in Birka where he hailed from, with leg-wrappings and an iron helmet that had a mask-like frontpiece to protect the wearer’s nose and eyes. He was also superstitious beyond measure, which was understandable from someone who had spent his youth hunting Giant Spiders.

“And forget not about the creatures as are said to live in the Lake itself,” reminded them Eitri who also had a knack for believing in such things. “Small, slick things that swim like eels but can climb the walls of your house from the outside to steal the bairns from their cradle through the open window.”

“Those are but old wives’ tales to frighten small children,” dismissed him Yrsa impatiently.

“Oh, but they are more than just that, Mistress,” insisted Guthri gravely. “They took me little sister when she was less than a year old, they did. We still lived in the forest back then, ere moving to Birka, and had a cottage near the river where me Da would fish. Those creatures stole me sister one night, while the door was barred. Me Mum never left us sleep with an open window again, no matter how hot it might be.”

“Well, I have lived _on_ the Lake all my life, and yet I have never seen any such creatures,” said Yrsa reasonably.

“They never go into a crowded place as has many folks living there,” explained Guthri. “They suffer from loud noises, my Grandda always said, as they have no proper ears, just some sort of thin membrane covering their earholes. ‘Tis like the membrane on drums, it is, and makes all noises twice as loud for them. That is how they hear under water… how they hunt for fish. They dwell in caves under the Lake, where it is quiet, for the world of Men is too loud for them, too loud. But this place here… they would like it, as it is abandoned and quiet, too. ‘Twould be perfect for them to hide and to watch out for enemies.”

“Or for victims,” added Eitri grimly. “They are always hungry, ‘tis said, and though fish is their main food source, they would eat just about anything: worms, beetles, bird’s eggs and fledglings, small rodents… even carcasses of larger beasts. And they hunt in groups, the water goblins do, which makes them so dangerous, despite their small size.”

“How big are they supposed to be again?” asked Iskjald, clearly doubting the whole tale.

“Smaller than a Halfling, even,” replied Guthri, “or so my grandda told me. Yet a dozen or so of them could bring down a strong Man if cornered; and they have weapons, too!”

“Barbed spears, the likes of which some of our folk use for fishing,” explained the Woodman. “And they _bite_ … they would gnaw off your limbs alive, they would.”

At this point Gitte began to whimper with fear again, despite the previous threats of her Mistress. Yrsa shot the men a baleful look.

“Can we cease telling tales of horror for a while, you think?” she said primly. “We cannot do aught as long as the storm goes on; if you want to go goblin-hunting, you will have to wait; and I for myself would prefer to wait quietly.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They had to wait several more hours ’til the storm finally lessened and the wind drove the towering grey clouds further down along the Lake. _Esgaroth will get her fair share of it_ , thought Yrsa worriedly, when they emerged from the Great Hall – or what was left of it – and spread their cloaks on the broken walls to let them dry in the sun that was now directly above their heads. ‘Twas a wonderful thing to feel the warmth seeping into their half-frozen limbs. She loosened her bun and wrung out her long, reddish-blond hair, then combed through it with her fingers to have it dry faster. She longed for a comb and towels and dry clothes, but she knew they were fortunate to be alive, so she did not complain.

The next step was to _stay_ alive, and Iskjald distributed his twelve men to the different tasks that served that purpose. He sent Eitri, Guthri and two other men to search the town for any possible dangerous creatures. He sent two men to try and catch some fish for them to eat; and he went down to the Market-Pool with the rest of them to see in what shape their ship was. He left behind _one_ man, though, to protect the women – not that Yrsa could not wield an axe if she had to, and the mass of her body could give her strikes considerable impact. But Gitte was fairly helpless; and besides, it was their duty to keep the Mistress safe.

Thus Keir, a large, straw-maned Northman of the Harbour Guards, remained with the women. He was young and adventurous and an excellent axe-fighter, so when Yrsa suggested to look around for a building that was in a better shape, in case they should be forced to stay here for some time, he was willing and eager to do so. The riches of the old town had become something of a legend in both Birka and Esgaroth, and even though it was known that the inhabitants had taken everything with them to their new home, Keir secretly hoped that they might find something of value that had been left behind.

The houses around the Market-Pool were all beyond repair, it seemed, thus they went down to the southern quays along the tunnelled channel to what had once been the Town Hall: a prominent building in the southern corner, the one nearest to the now ruined Great Bridge that had run out to the western shore of the Lake. To their surprise the Town Hall was still in an acceptable shape, its roof of wooden slates battered but more or less intact, and only one or two of the steps that led down directly to the Lake were broken.

“It looks promising,” commented Keir, “but we should wait for the patrol ere we enter, Mistress. Whether those water goblins of Guthri’s grandda truly exist or not, it never hurts to be a bit cautious.

That was certainly true, and so they waited impatiently for Eitri’s patrol to catch up with them. Fortunately, the men had searched the empty, half-ruined houses around the Market-Pool quickly enough and came marching down on the west side of it less than half an hour later.

“So far we have found nothing, Mistress,” reported Eitri. “Small wonder, though; those houses would not offer shelter even for a weather-hardened Warg. This one looks well enough, though,” he added, giving the former Town Hall an appreciating look, “and is right at the quays, it is. Stay here with Keir, Mistress, while we take a look inside. If anywhere, here we might find inhabitants. With some effort, it could be reached even by the Bride, broken in some places though it is.”

“Did the Hall have a back door or a gate opening to the water?” asked Guthri, for such things were not uncommon in towns built upon or close to water.

Yrsa shrugged. “Not that I would know of. But they might have trap doors cut into the plank floor as we have them back home.”

“Guthri, take Finn with you and go to the windows on the other side,” ordered Eitri. “He is young and limber, he can get in through the window in no time if needs must be. Me and Sheaf, we shall take the front door.”

“Wait!” cried out Gitte suddenly, ere they could have made their move. “Can you not hear it? There are voices coming from within the building.”

They all became silent and tried to listen. And lo! There were indeed voices from within; weak and desperate voices, like those of frightened women or children, and some strange, rattling noise made by iron chafing on iron. A noise some of them knew all too well.

“Chains?” whispered Keir.

Eitri, who had made close acquaintance with chains in his youth, nodded grimly. “Aye,” he answered in a low voice, “those are chains all right. Someone is being kept inside; and they are badly scared, it sounds.”

“Shall we summon the others to aid us?” Guthri was already reaching for the hunting horn that hung from his belt.

Eitri shook his head. “Nay, for it would alert the jailers within; if indeed our voices had not alerted them already.”

“You cannot go in all on your own, just the four of you,” said Yrsa. “Who knows who or what lies in there, waiting for its next victim. Gitte, go back to the Market-Pool and send all men up here, quickly. We might need all the axes we have for this.”

Glad to leave the potentially dangerous place, Gitte scurried away as fast as she could on the wet planks. Yrsa, however, did not intend to leave.

“Give me your spare axe,” she said to Guthri. “I shall remain here, but I am not going to let any foul thing escape if I can help it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When the voices outside their prison were replaced with silence once again, Razar was overcome with despair. Rescue had sounded so close; and yet they seemed to have been abandoned again, left to the mercy of the ravenous water creatures. Their pale eyes gleaming hungrily, the things began to creep towards them, the membranes where their ears should have been throbbing with effort to listen to the noises from outside. They did not feel entirely safe yet, but they were growing more confident, and Razar knew his fate – and that of the other boys – was all but sealed.

Razar could see how they licked their lips in anticipation, revealing forked tongues and uneven rows of small, very sharp teeth… too many teeth for any decent creature to have in their mouths, even if arranged in two rows. They were sniffing the stuffy air impatiently, and Razar understood that it was poor little Halli’s blood that made them so excited. They were predators, drawn to the scent of blood, after all. They would eat Halli and Razar and all the others alive – and Razar had no other weapon than a high-pitched, desperate scream to keep them away.

The creature closest to them wailed and covered its sensitive ear membranes with both webbed hands. But ere it could have recovered from the shock, the front door was unhinged by the forceful strikes of a great axe and bearded, helmeted men burst into the building with deafening battle cries. Others were jumping in through the windows on the other side, and soon enough, the screeching goblins were running for their miserable lives, terrified by the big men and their sharp, shining axes. Some of them managed to slip into the safety of the water through the trap door, but a great number of them were slain within moments and now lay scattered all over the plank floor, with their spidery limbs still twitching but beyond help. Not even a goblin could last long with its skull split in two.

Razar’s awareness dimmed at this sight, and he felt himself slide into darkness slowly, inevitably. They had been rescued. Against all hope, they had been rescued. He could let go now…

“Oh nay, you shan’t faint on me now, lad!” grumbled a gruff voice. “Not after all the pain it cost us to find you!” But there was sorrow in that voice rather than anger; sorrow about the shape they were in. If there indeed was any anger, it was not aimed at _them_.

With great effort, Razar opened his leaden eyelids a split and saw a black-bearded, dark-eyed man with a leathery face, wearing a rough, undyed woollen tunic and an iron helmet. He could have been Razar’s father or uncle, given his looks and his apparent age.

Next to the man a very fat woman was kneeling. With her enormous bosom and wide hips she was like a true mountain of flesh, and she wore fine clothes, revealing her as a well-to-do person, but her freckled face was kind and compassionate. Her pale eyes looked down at Razar with sorrow, and her small, fleshy hand was blessedly cool upon his fevered brow.

“He is burning up,” she aid in a high, pleasant voice. “I fear ‘tis the lung fever. We shall need a healer, and a good one at that… and soon. How are the other boys doing, Guthri?”

“Half-starved and chilled and scared witless, but otherwise not so bad off,” answered another gruff male voice. “’Cept the littlest one, that is… he seems to have lost a leg, he does.”

“Those things… bit off his leg,” whispered Razar. “I could do… so little for him…”

“At least you stopped the bleeding – he is still alive,” replied the man outside the field of his vision. “I know not how much longer he will last, though. We must cauterise the stump with hot iron, or he will go into the blood fever and die.”

“Should we not rather take him – both of them – to Esgaroth?” asked the fat woman. “It might be too long ‘til the healer gets here.”

“We cannot, Mistress,” answered the man. “Only one of our _faering_ s survived the storm – and not entirely unharmed, either. We must send out men to bring help, and they will manage, I am certain, but I would not risk moving the boy. We cannot send him to Esgaroth in such an unstable boat.”

The name struck a cord in Razar’s fading mind. “Please…” he whispered weakly. “Send us not… back to Master Turcaill… I beg you…”

“Turcaill?” repeated the woman in visible shock. “What can the spymaster have to do with these poor boys?”

“I know not,” replied the man with the black beard grimly. “But it cannot be any honest business. Keeping these starving lads in chains in such a place, left behind to the mercy of the water goblins… ‘tis bad business, Mistress, very bad business. The Master of Esgaroth must hear of this.”

“He will, in time,” promised the woman. “I sit in the Town Council myself, after all. But first we must free the boys, so that we can treat them as well as we can. Could you remove the chains?”

“The chains, aye, but not the cuffs,” said the man. “We do not have the right tools for such work.”

“’Twould still be an improvement,” said the woman. “Our cloaks might not be dry yet, but we should take the boys out into the warmth of the sun. They are so very pale. They must have been kept in this horrid place for quite some time.”

And thus the men hacked off the rusty chains with their axes, leaving the iron cuffs for the blacksmith once they got home; and they carried the weakened boys out to the now sunlit wooden platform upon which the town had been built. The two women then rubbed them down with the still somewhat damp cloaks to warm them up a little. After such a long time in their dank prison, Razar shivered in the light breeze, despite the warm sunlight. The fat woman crunched down next to him.

“My name is Yrsa,” she said, “and I am a craftswoman from Esgaroth, a weaver. Where are you boys from and how did you get here?”

“Rhûn…” whispered Razar. “Siltric Jarl… sold us to… Master Turcaill… to bring him up… jewels from the Dragon’s carcass…”

He was tired, so very tired. He did not feel strong enough to answer any more questions. His heavy eyelids fell closed again, and he drifted out of consciousness.

Yrsa glanced up at Iskjald. “Make that _faering_ ready, Captain. Send your best men. We need that healer, and we need him quickly, for the time of these boys – especially that of the littlest one – is running out.”

“Even if they can be helped, what is to become of them?” asked Iskjald doubtfully. “Half of them seem too young to be legally apprenticed; and who would want to take in a lad with only one leg anyway?”

“Let that be my concern,” replied Yrsa, “and make certain that the men you send for help will keep their mouths shut. I do not like this news about Master Turcaill, and I wish him not to become suspicious and escape. The Town Council ought to deal with him; and we shall need the boys as witnesses.”

“What are they supposed to tell, then?” asked Iskjald.”

“That our ship has been damaged in the storm and we need a healer as well as a strong _knarr_ to tow us into harbour,” answered Yrsa. “That is all they need to know. Fortunately, my house stands in the farthest corner of _our_ Market-Pool; we shall be able to hide the boys ‘til they are needed.”

Iskjald nodded his agreement and went to select the best oarsmen for the battered _faering_ – an open rowboat with only two pairs of oars, from where its name came. When the Lake was calm, like now after the storm, these light, fast boats were excellent means of transportation for short trips, and Esgaroth was truly not _that_ far from the ruins of the old town.

With the _faering_ on its way, Guthri and one of his fellow Woodmen who had some skill at treating wounds, gathered the necessities for the gruesome task of cauterising the wounded boy’s leg stump, while Yrsa and Gitte tried to warm up the other boys and to keep Razar’s fever from rising any more. Neither task promised to be an easy one with most of their things lost in the storm, including the healing bundle they always kept on the ship, but they had at least to try.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Middle Ages, stumps of amputated limbs were indeed cauterized with glowing hot iron, in order to prevent haemorrhaging. The French army doctor Ambroise Paré, born in 1510, was the first to design artificial hands and limbs for amputation patients. On one of the artificial hands, the two pairs of fingers could be moved for simple grabbing and releasing tasks and the hand looked perfectly natural underneath a glove. I didn't want to go quite that far with the similarities, but assumed that the woodworkers of Dale or Esgaroth were well capable of carving an artificial limb.  
> Íreth, the chief healer of the Mirkwood Elves is a recurring original character of me. She first appeared in “Little Bird”.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 22**

Poor little Halli was, fortunately, unconscious while the men dealt with his stump, but the other boys were wracked with dry heaves from the horrible stench of burnt flesh. Yrsa, too, felt nauseated, but since she had offered to hold the boy in her arms during the process, she could not become weak. This time she did not blame Gitte for kneeling on the very edge of the quay and “feeding the fish”, as the Lakemen liked to say. She would have done the same if not needed.

“Do you believe he might live yet?” she asked Guthri, meaning the little boy.

The shaggy Woodman shrugged. “If no infection has reached the bloodstream yet, he may have a chance… though what a life ‘twould be for a lil’ lad with only one leg… and a foreigner at that, with no kin to take care of him…”

“There are crafts that can be done without the use of both legs,” replied Yrsa. “And the woodcarvers of Dale are skilled; they can make a wooden leg for him. I have known archers who could bend a bow with a wooden arm just like with their own before. How much harder can it be to walk on a wooden leg?”

Guthri gave her a curious glance. “You are planning to take the lil’ one into your house for good, Mistress?”

‘Twas Yrsa’s turn to shrug now. “My house is big enough, and I have no family of my own. I am planning to take in them all… for the present anyway. I have the room, and I would be pleased by the company. We can decide what to do with them in the long run later.”

“But we have _not_ found the strongbox with your coin, Mistress,” warned Eitri. “You will have high expenses, having the ship repaired… and feeding eight half-starved lads is not going to be cheap.”

“True,” answered Yrsa with a sigh, “but they are my responsibility now. I have found them… I cannot abandon them again.”

“Pardon me, Mistress,” said an uncertain young voice, and they saw a painfully thin youngling of perhaps fifteen approaching them nervously, “but if your coin has fallen into the Lake, we might be able to help…”

“How?” asked Yrsa in surprise.

“We can dive under the town and bring it up again,” replied the boy matter-of-factly. “That is what we do… what we have done for our master for many seasons… bringing up valuables from the bottom of the Lake.”

Yrsa hesitated. She did not like the idea of sending the boys back to the bottom of the Lake where even more water goblins might be hunting for prey. It seemed selfish and cruel. On the other hand, getting her coin back was too good a chance to let it slip. It meant not only her immediate future, but that of her workers, too. They would all have it so much easier if she could bring that coin home. She still would have to redo the drafts, true, and that meant long working hours in the night for her. But at least she would not need to give up _all_ her savings for the repairs on the ship.

“You would truly do that for me?” she asked, ashamed that she would even consider it.

The boy gave her a tired smile. “You offered us a place in your house. We want to be useful.”

“But you are so hungry and weakened…” began Yrsa.

The boy laughed mirthlessly. “Mistress, we have been hungry and weakening for the last four _years_ , Már and me… ever since we were brought here. ‘Tis nothing new for us.”

“Worry not, Mistress,” the other boy, whose name was apparently Már, added helpfully. “We can do this, Joukko and me can. The creatures are scared and hiding right now; it is less dangerous down there than it usually would be.”

“Let them do it, Mistress,” Eitri supported the idea; he had once been a slave himself, he knew what his kind was capable of. “We both know that you need that coin badly; and if the lads want to earn their keeping, it is their right.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Thus Yrsa gave in, despite her guilty conscience, and the two boys slipped into the water of the Market-Pool like a pair of sleek river-otters. The water was cold and still murky from the recent storm, but they were used to such things.

They reached the bottom of the Lake as quickly as usual and began their search after the strongbox as described by Mistress Yrsa. The men had given them several lengths of strong rope with iron hooks on the end, which they had removed from their ship, and the boys were dragging those ropes behind them. ‘Twas hard to see under the water, harder than usual, for the storm had stirred it up quite a bit, and a great deal of sand, plant rests and other rubbish was floating everywhere, clouding the view and tormenting the eyes. Joukko wished his eyes were double-lidded, like those of the water goblins. Having a glistening, protective inner membrane like they had would have been very useful right now. But Men were not made to dwell – and to see – underwater, and so he had to peer about himself as well as he could.

Már glided along the underside of the damaged ship to look for the strongbox there, and so Joukko chose to search the shadowy places alongside the small jetties that reached out into the Market-Pool. Twice were they forced to go back to the surface for air already but had found nothing so far. There were simply too many possibilities for such a small item to be washed under.

“Let us search under the quays of the Market-Pool next,” suggested Már, ere they dove into the murky water again.

Joukko found that a sensible idea, and indeed, it only took them another trip to the surface to find the strongbox they were looking for: a nicely carved little oakwood chest, bound in wrought iron and secured with a large, ornate padlock. It was sitting right under the quay, half-hidden among some water plants. The boys hooked the rope under the iron hoops and pulled on it, signalling the men above that they can pull the box up. As it slowly began to lift from the bottom, the boys grinned at each other triumphantly. They had done it! They had proved that they were useful!

They kicked away from the lake bottom and were just about to swim to the surface when Joukko spotted the strange bags. They seemed to be made of leather or strong canvas, and appeared to hang from the underside of the quays. They also seemed… familiar somehow, as if he had already seen the likes of them. He just could not remember when or where. Not at the moment anyway. But he could not investigate them, not yet. They needed to get up for air again. Joukko touched Már’s shoulder, nodded in the direction of the strange things. Már nodded back in understanding. Aye, they would come back to take a closer look.

Mistress Yrsa, who still had poor little Halli in her arms, greeted them with gratitude and relief, and wanted them to rest and get dry ‘til the men would catch some fish to eat, but Joukko shook his head.

“We have found something we need to check out first,” he said; then he looked at the men. “Can one of you lend me a knife, good sirs? I might need to cut something loose.”

After a moment of hesitation, the shaggy-bearded Woodman threw him a long knife, which Joukko took between his teeth ere jumping back into the water. Már followed him. Now that they knew what they were looking for, they did not need to waste any time – they swam directly to the bags. From such close proximity it was clear that they were bags indeed, not – which also would have been a possibility – the egg sacks of some fish or other water creature.

Joukko dove under the bags and tried to cut through the strong double cord there were fastened to the underside of the quay with. It was a tough task, but still nothing compared with loosening the Dragon’s gilded scales. All he needed was a little patience and some skill, both of which he had aplenty. Within one dive, he managed to cut loose two of the canvas bags, and Már helped him to drag them to the surface.

By then, all remaining men had gathered on the quay, curious of what he might have found. Breathing heavily, Joukko and Már pulled the bags out of the water, and Joukko used the Woodman’s knife to cut one of them open, eager to see if it had been worth their effort.

The sight took his breath away. Pearls and jewels and golden dragon scales spilled onto the wet wooden platform; riches enough for a man to feed his family for years. Cutting through the cord sealing the other sack, Joukko saw that it was similarly filled.

“So that is where ‘Uncle’ Prostr had put all that which never found its way into Master Turcaill’s pocket,” said Már, still panting a little. Seeing the confused looks of the others, he added. “He was he servant who watched us all the time. We knew he always put away a small part of what we had harvested from the Dragon’s corpse. Just a little part, so that Master Turcaill would not become suspicious… but we could never find out where he kept it.”

“It does not seem so little to me,” said Gitte, her eyes widening in awe at the sight.

“He has watched us – and all the others before us – for many seasons,” said Joukko. “He was patient… and he had enough time to fill all those sacks.” He looked at Már. “We should bring up the rest, too, I think.”

“There is more?” Iskjald’s eyes began to glitter greedily.

“Whatever there is, it belongs to these boys,” cut in Yrsa in a stern manner. “They have been the ones who risked their lives to harvest the Dragon’s treasure; whose health is likely ruined. They will need it to make a life for themselves.”

“They would have no need for it, had we not saved them,” said Iskjald nastily. “They would be all goblin food by now.”

“True enough,” agreed Yrsa, “and we are indeed entitled to some reward for it – a reward that the Master of Esgaroth will decide, according to the laws and rules of the _Guild Merchant_. You, my friend, would do well to watch your heart, though; for you are in grave danger to fall victim to the Dragon Sickness, just like the last Master of Laketown – and we all know that such people tend to have a bad end.”

Iskjald clearly did _not_ like the reproach, but the other men agreed with their Mistress. The law was very clear in such cases, and they had a justified claim on their reward. But they were no brigands and footpads to simply take the treasure for which only Gandvik knew how many such pour, misused boys had laboured hard and died already.

Joukko and Már watched the argument in wide-eyed astonishment. The thought that they might be able to keep at least some of the salvaged riches had never occurred to them. The most they had hoped for was not to be sent back to Master Turcaill… or to ‘Uncle’ Prostr, who was worse than the master himself, much worse.

They exchanged uncertain looks. By rights, Razar should have made the decision, as he was the only grown-up among them. But Razar was feverish, possibly dying, and had no knowledge of what was happening around him.

“We shall gladly let you have these, Mistress, and all that are still under the quay,” Joukko finally said. “We can and will work for our keeping. Just... just do not send us back to the master… please…”

The fat woman gave him a glance full of pity. She seemed to understand their fear, which was surprising.

“Worry not,” she said. “Such things as Turcaill has done are not tolerated in Esgaroth. The Master of the town will decide what is yours, what will be ours and what should be given to the town as compensation. He is a good, honest man, Master Ketill is; he will not leave you bereft of what is lawfully yours, for your heavy labours. And as you are hard workers, you surely will find apprenticeships either among us or in Dale. No-one will be allowed to use you so badly again.”

“For that, and for all that which you have already done, we are grateful, Mistress,” said Joukko; as the second-oldest, it was his right to speak for the others, now that Razar could no longer do so. “Do you wish us to bring up the rest of the bags? They are hidden deeply, but we can find them.”

“Nay,” replied Yrsa, giving Iskjald a somewhat unfriendly look. “They will keep where they are for a while yet. You can bring them up right before we leave this place. Rest now – and pray that help may arrive in time, for this little one cannot hold out much longer.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To tell the truth, Yrsa had not expected help to arrive before sunset; perhaps not even before midnight, as the _faering_ in which four of her hired oarsmen left had been in a truly precarious state. That worried her greatly, for she feared that neither the maimed boy, nor the fevered youth will last long enough to see the healers. She did not want to lose them, now that they had a chance to be freed from the spymaster’s clutches, but things did not look well for them.

‘Twas great relief – and an equally great surprise – for her then to see a slender Elven boat approach the quay in the late afternoon. Like all Lakemen, she knew the light and swift boats of the Wood-Elves and recognized them from afar. They were gently curving upwards on both ends and steered with a single, leaf-shaped oar, yet they could fly on the water faster than any man-made vessel.

She also recognized one of the boat’s occupant at once. It was Mistress Íreth, the senior healer of the Elvenking’s court, who had already come to the Lakemen’s aid before - many times, in fact. Her presence did not surprise Yrsa, only that she would arrive so soon. The _faering_ could have barely reached Esgaroth yet.

The Elven oarsman – a youthful-looking male in the usual green and brown garb of his people yet with the full scrip of a healer on his shoulder – steered the boat close to the quay, and the healer leaped lightly onto the planks. She was a slender woman of middle height, plain for an Elf with her serene, freckled face, although still stunning compared with mere mortals. She wore a simple, unadorned forest-green gown and tied over that the long, loose apron of a healer. Her thick auburn hair was bound back in a grey cloth, keeping it out of her eyes – eyes that were brown and very bright like polished chestnuts and mirrored the wisdom of Ages – and the sleeves of her gown were rolled up ’til her elbows. 

Yrsa could not even guess how old Mistress Íreth might be, but it was said that she had known the oldest oaks and beeches of the great forest from the acorn they had grown of, and even then she had not been young anymore. She was, without doubt, one of the oldest and wisest persons in the Wilderland, and Yrsa was grateful beyond measure for her presence.

“Mistress Íreth,” she said with a polite bow of her head, “thank you for coming to our aid, once again. But how could you reach us so soon?”

“I accompanied our King on his campaign against Dol Guldur,” answered the Elf in a pleasantly low voice. “On our way back, friendly birds came to us and told us about your need and about the children who have been badly hurt. My apprentice and I decided not to wait for the ships of Esgaroth. Our boats are swift and safe, and the need seemed great.”

“Aye, the need is great indeed, and your aid is mightily welcome,” said Yrsa, “for I fear that time is running out for this one,” she glanced at the maimed boy in her arms, “as well as for the youth who may have the lung fever.”

“Then let us not tarry any longer,” said the Elf and looked at her apprentice. “Look after the youth, Nuinthor, while I see what I can do for this poor child.”

The younger Elf grabbed his scrip and followed the men to Razar who was writhing and tossing in feverish nightmares. Mistress Íreth ordered little Halli to be laid onto the planks and let her hands glide over his entire body, feeling deep for hidden injuries or infections, while singing softly under her breath. ‘Twas her personal gift, to feel such things; a gift most Elven healers shared.

“There _is_ some infection,” she finally judged, “but no blood poisoning so far, which is what I have feared most. Some of his ribs are badly bruised, and his kidneys are inflamed, too, but ‘tis naught we cannot deal with. If things do not take a turn to the worse, he will recover, although he might have kidney problems for quite a while yet,” she looked up, feeling Nuinthor’s approach. “What about the youth?”

“’Tis the lung fever all right,” replied the apprentice healer in concern, “though still in the early phase. However, I fear that his lungs have taken permanent damage, previously to the fever. I wonder how _that_ happened.”

“He was forced to dive under the town many times, from sunrise to sunset, to bring up gold and jewels from the corpse of the Dragon,” said Yrsa grimly. “They all were… and before them, there had been other boys who died from this harsh work, or were eaten by the water goblins. ‘Tis very bad business, and once we are back to Esgaroth, there will be consequences for the man who made them do it. Dire consequences, if I get to say aught about it. But we will need the boys as witnesses to properly punish the man who is responsible for their state. Can you heal them?”

“We can,” answered Mistress Íreth thoughtfully. “Yet they will remain damaged in some ways. They will need someone who takes them in and cares for them… perchance for the rest of their lives. Otherwise, it would be more merciful to let them die.”

“I have already promised to take them into my house,” said Yrsa. “All of them, if I have to – these two in any case, as they will have no means to care for themselves. Do whatever you can do for them to recover. I shall do the rest.”

The ancient Elf-lady gave her a long, piercing look. Yrsa had the feeling that those bright hazel eyes were seeing into the farthest, most hidden corners of her heart and mind, searching for any ulterior motives – and finding none. After a long moment, Mistress Íreth nodded.

“Very well,” she said. “I shall do my best to heal their bodies; you will have to heal their hearts. And _that_ , believe me, is going to be a much harder task.”

“I know,” replied Yrsa, “but time is a healer, too. And time I shall have enough.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For the rest of the afternoon - well into the night, in fact - Mistress Íreth and her apprentice worked very hard to save Razar and poor little Halli. Yrsa and Gitte helped with what little they could do: with boiling water on one of the ovens that had, miraculously, survived the destruction of Laketown; with soaking bandages, washing the boys’ faces with wet cloths to give them some temporary relief; with cooking the fish the men had caught in the Lake, and so on. 

The men took apart one of the buildings that was damaged beyond repair, so that there would be no shortage in firewood, tried to catch more fish and to assess the extent of the damage the storm had done to their ship. That way, everyone was kept busy enough so that Yrsa needed only to keep a causal eye on the two bags of treasure Joukko and Már had brought up from under the quays.

Around midnight, to their great relief, the help from Esgaroth finally arrived, in the form of a large _knarr_ , a merchant barge that bore the somewhat ridiculous name _Lame Duck_. It belonged to Master Otir’s family and was currently commanded by Onundr Otirsson, who – contrary to common belief – _was_ the actual firstborn of the Master Bowman. However, he had refused to follow his father into soldiering and thus come into disgrace by Master Otir. Instead, he had learned the skill of ship-building and boat-making, and learned it so well that he became the best shipwright of Esgaroth. He had married the daughter of his master but was widowed and inherited the workshop from his father-in-law, becoming the Master Shipwright, despite still being a few years short of forty.

He was heavy-set and barrel-chested like his father and his brothers, but his hair was darker, wavier and shorter. He had it in a short ponytail to keep it out of his broad face, and he had a neatly trimmed, short beard. His heavy shoulders and bare arms (of the size of tree-trunks) made him look like the Beornings rather than the Lakemen, but everyone who had seen him at work knew how amazingly quick and graceful he could be when climbing masts. His dark eyes, too, spoke of some Beorning ancestor somewhere up his family tree, and people sometimes wondered whether he could turn himself into a bear – which he could _not_. That specific ability did not get passed down whenever the Beornings mingled with other races.

Bear or not, Yrsa was immensely relieved when she saw him jump onto the wooden planks of the quay. Like his father and brethren, Onundr Otirsson was a good, honest man, whose mere presence guaranteed her safety – and that of the boys and their treasure. What was more, he had brought several of his boat-makers with him: carpenters and ropers, to repair her little ship and bring it home when they were done. Yrsa’s four hired oarsmen had come back with him, swearing that they had not said a word about the boys and the treasure they had found. Yrsa could only hope that they were telling the truth, or else Spymaster Turcaill would slip through their fingers.

She found it needful to tell the shipwright everything well in advance, though. Onundr Otirsson – who, as the head of his guild, also had a vote in the Town Council – listened to her story with tense attention. To her amazement, though, albeit the fate of the poor boys outraged him every bit as much as it had her, he did not seem all too surprised.

“There have already been suspicions concerning Master Turcaill,” he explained. “The Dark Elf who had come to our aid with the Fair Folk has voiced his doubts repeatedly; and it seems that the spymaster has been in league with the Easterlings all the time.”

Yrsa shrugged. “Well, his sister used to be the wife of Siltric Silkbeard, did she not? That is how Master Turcaill gathered knowledge about troop movements and what was going on between the Khimmer tribes for years.”

“True,” admitted Onundr, “but has he not always stated that his late sister and his nephew were helping _us_ against the Easterlings?”

“Of course he has,” replied Yrsa tiredly. “Do you believe he has lied to us?”

“I am having my doubts,” said Onundr, “and what you have just told me makes me even more suspicious. I do not believe the spymaster wanted the destruction of Esgaroth – it is _his_ home, too, after all – but I think he would have happily sold out Dale and the Dwarves or Elves, just to save his own hide. In truth, I believe he would have accepted even the destruction of Esgaroth, as long as he could escape with his family and his wealth. He has the best ships in town – I ought to know, as I have built them – and it seems he has been gathering riches here for quite some time.”

“’Tis still hard to believe,” said Yrsa sadly, “that one of our own would be capable of such betrayal.”

Onundr shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Aye, it is a sad thing, but that is the Dragon Sickness for you,” he said. “’Tis not the first time it occurs in his family, either. Remember, he descends from the Master of Laketown; the one who tried to take all the treasure given us from the Dragon’s hoard for himself and died in the wilderness on a sack of gold.”

“I know,” Yrsa sighed, “but that is not the same. The Master of Laketown was greedy and foolish… he was no traitor.”

“Greed can lead men to horrible deeds,” said Onundr gravely. “You have been wise not to allow the boys to bring up the rest of the treasure ere we leave. Such riches can be tempting, even for the best of men… and Iskjald Holgersson does have a certain… _reputation_ of being hungry for wealth.”

“And a well-deserved one, too, “replied Yrsa wryly. “He had the cheek to court _me_ , while openly chasing after my own maid. He thought me such a fool that I would fall for his honeyed tongue; that I would not notice that he was only after my coin.”

“I would never say you should wed someone like him,” said Onundr, “but are marriages based on reason truly so bad? I know that my late wife and I only wed because I had to take over her father’s workshop, but we had a few good years together nonetheless, and I was grieved by her death as much as if I had chosen her out of love alone.”

"Your wife did not look as I do,” pointed out Yrsa bitterly.

Perhaps for the first time since they had known each other, Onundr gave her a long, assessing look. For the first time in her life, she did not find it humiliating, for in those dark eyes there was no dismay, just mild curiosity.

“You may find that not all men are quite that shallow,” Onundr finally said; then he rose. “Well, I must take a look at that ship of yours, and then I shall go off to bed. We shall have a lot do ere we leave in the morn.”

With that, he left, leaving a very thoughtful Yrsa behind.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morn Joukko, Már and the other boys made several dives under the quays and brought up as many as eight canvas bags full of gold and pearls and precious stones altogether. These bags, together with the two they had harvested on the previous day, were carried into the cabin of Onundr Otirsson’s ship, where also Razar and little Halli were bedded on simple bedrolls under the watchful eye of the Elven healers. This arrangement solved the problem of guarding the treasure as well; no Man could hope to slip by the keen-eyed Elves, one of whom, the young apprentice, had a long knife on his belt and was apparently well trained in using it, too.

The wind blew from the North, directly in their faces, when they left the ruins of Laketown, so that they could not use the sail and had to trust in the strong arms of the oarsmen. That meant they would reach Esgaroth later than intended, but Yrsa did not truly mind it. She was _not_ looking forward to facing all those unpleasantries concerning Spymaster Turcaill she knew would be inevitable.

She felt sick about the whole sorry business. It saddened her that while Elves and Dwarves had come to fight alongside them, one of their own would be willing to sell them to the enemy. That someone who had been respected and valued among their own councilmen would use these poor boys in such a heartless way, and indeed had caused the death of other boys before.

“I wonder what else we will learn when it comes to the trial,” she said to Onundr who, now that the _Lame Duck_ was safely on the way home, had come to stand with her on the foredeck. “Mayhap rebuilding our town with the treasure that had endured the touch of the Dragon for so long was not such a good idea, after all.”

The shipwright shook his head. “The evil is not in the gold or in the jewels,” he said. “’Tis in the hearts of men. And not all who have touched it have turned evil, either. Also, I am certain that had the Dragon’s corpse not lain here, Turcaill would have found other ways to enrich himself and exploit the weak. A blackened heart always finds a way. Always. I only wonder how much his family knew… his wife, his children…”

“I am quite certain that Mistress Eydís knew naught,” replied Yrsa. “Had she known of the treasure, she would not have allowed it to lie unused for years. She has a great fondness for fine clothes and jewellery, and she would have demanded her due. Forcefully.”

“Besides, had _she_ known, she would have told her father,” Onundr agreed. “And Master Ketill would have made Turcaill end it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Yrsa quietly. “I know he is a good and honest man, but so much wealth is a great temptation… and like everyone else, he does like it when his strongbox is full.”

Onundr nodded thoughtfully. “If it comes to harvesting the treasure from the Dragon’s carcass, he might be willing to participate,” he said. “But I cannot imagine him to allow these boys to be used in such a manner… or to condone slavery. He would have sought volunteers among the Woodmen who have no fear of the dead Dragon, or found other ways, I deem.”

“Volunteers would want to be paid,” reminded him Yrsa.

Onundr shrugged. “And slaves need to be fed and clothed, however little they would get,” he replied. “Nay; the only advantage of using slaves lies in secrecy: that they cannot go around and tell anyone about the treasure.”

“I still cannot understand,” said Yrsa. “ _Everyone_ knows about the treasure already. _Everyone_ could have come to dive for it… they just chose not to do.”

“Because they were afraid of the Dragon’s curse,” replied Onundr. “But that would have changed, once they had seen the riches that _can_ be harvested. You have seen the greed in Iskjald Holgersson’s eyes as well as I have. Now that people will see that it can be done, many will try to grab some of the riches for themselves. And I think the King of Dale would demand his share as well. After all, it was _his_ ancestor who slew the Dragon in the first place… and Dale could use the riches buried under the lake to repair the damage suffered during the siege.”

“’Twould only be proper,” said Yrsa. ‘”They have bought _our_ safety with their blood, too.”

Onundr nodded. “True enough. I only fear that the Dragon Sickness would spread quickly, once our people learn what happened here. Master Ketill will need all the support he can get to prevent an ugly struggle for the treasure.”

“Well, he certainly has _mine_ ,” replied Yrsa.

“Mine, too,” said Onundr, “ _and_ that of my father and the Harbour Master, no doubt. It wills still not be easy. It all depends on the trial. If people understand the depths of Turcaill’s treachery, they will not want to be seen in the same light.”

“Part of the reason why Master Ketill was chosen for his office were his wisdom and his experience,” said Yrsa with a sigh. “Let us hope he has enough of both to deal with this unfortunate business.”

“He is a wily old bird,” said Onundr with a sudden grin. “I trust him to make people understand what has been done and what needs to be done.”

“Let us hope,” repeated Yrsa, and then both fell silent.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter discusses truly disturbing things to a certain extent (nothing in-depth, descriptive or detailed, but still), so it is only for adult readers.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 23**

Drizzt had been invited to stay with Master Otir’s family during his visit in Esgaroth… an invitation he gladly accepted, for he had come to like – and respect – the Master Bowman greatly. He admired the Man for the dignity with which Otir bore the knowledge that he would not be able to carry on as the chief of Esgaroth’s archers any longer, and that he could appreciate the good thing in his crippling injury: the fact that he had survived in the first place.

The rest of Master Otir’s family turned out to be the same good-humoured, though and resilient lot. His wife, Thórgríma, despite being the mother of seven (!) grown children, still shouldered the burden of such a large household with a vigour many a young woman would have envied. Of their daughters, the two older ones had already married and moved out to raise families of their own. The youngest, a lovely and wholesome thing of barely eighteen summers, was currently being courted and expected to marry in the coming summer.

Of their four sons, only Onundr had already been married – although, sadly, widowed after less than a year. The parents wanted Gunnar to follow suit, soon, and made no secret about it. The youngest lads, Án and Jón, were still happy enough to stay with their parents… and still young enough to do so without being frowned upon.

At the news of their father’s return, Thórvé and Oddfrídh, too, came for a visit, and they took in Master Otir’s condition with the same unshakable calm as their mother had. Life was dangerous, and war was even more so – they all were grateful to have him back at all. They accepted Drizzt’s presence with the same readiness. If their father saw fit to bring the strange Dark Elf home with him, he must have had his reasons. They were not about to question his choices.

After their return, they were called before Master Ketill and asked to give him full details about the siege of Dale. The Master and the town councillors – the heads of the various guilds of Esgaroth – listened to the tales of fighting and terror with awe and thanked the Powers that this time their own town had been spared; for they knew Esgaroth could not have withstood a siege of such magnitude half as long as Dale had. There was something to be said for stone walls.

When all tales had been told and the feast given to honour the returning war heroes was over, the respected _burghers_ and _burghesses_ of Esgaroth returned to their homes, still barely able to fathom their good fortune. Master Ketill, however, asked Drizzt and Master Otir to stay for a moment longer.

“I have been told, Master Elf, that you are suspicious about the loyalties of our spymaster,” he said. “Can you say what raised your suspicions in the first place?”

Drizzt shook his head. “I cannot truly tell,” he answered thoughtfully. “’Twas more instinct than aught else. I felt a certain… falseness in him, and that feeling grew the more time I spent in his company. I know not what set it off, and I have no proof of his falseness. But I still have the strong feeling that something is not quite right with him.”

“I fear that your instincts have not misled you, Master Elf,” said the old Man with a sigh. “We have found at least _some_ proof that he has been lying to us for a long time; yet I fear that proof would not be enough to give him a proper trial.”

“What do you want us to do then?” asked Drizzt.

“The Wood-Elves say your night-eyes are even sharper than those of their own kind,” replied the Master of Esgaroth. “I would like you to keep an eye on Turcaill’s house during the nighttime, if that is not asking too much. Perchance he will betray his true intentions when he believes himself unwatched. Perchance he will try to flee the town under the veil of darkness. He has one of the best, fastest ships in town, after all.”

“I can do that,” agreed Drizzt; indeed, watching the town at night might prove interesting. “But you had better put someone on watch in the harbour, too. Should his ship manage to escape, it would he hard to catch him again.”

“That already has been arranged,” the old Man sighed anew. “’Tis bitter for me, Master Elf, as he is the husband of my daughter, and should he prove guilty in any evil business, it would reflect badly on my own family as well. But the law must be respected, no matter what.”

“Whatever he is up to, I am sure your daughter has no part in it,” said Master Otir. “She is an honest woman, even if she likes fine clothes and jewellery a little too much. Worry not that blame might fall upon her… or you. The Men of Esgaroth are wise enough to direct blame where it is due.”

“People can be unreasonable sometimes,” replied the Master of Esgaroth. “But whatever the outcome may be, we must look deeply into Turcail’s business. It might turn out like an evil growth; we might have to cut deeply to remove all that which is harmful.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Spymaster Turcaill was perhaps the only one who had not felt unblemished joy and gratitude upon the return of their warriors and the news of the Easterlings’ defeat and the rescuing of Dale. Not that he had wished the Men of Dale any ill things – he had just seen their fall as the necessary thing to save Esgaroth – but the utter destruction of the Tribe of the White Kine left him without a strong supporter in Rhûn, even if that support had often served Siltric more than it would serve him.

The only other Easterlings who came regularly to Rhovanion with more or less peaceful intentions were the Tribe of the Sea Dog, and those traded mostly with Birka, not wishing to foray too far into potentially hostile territory. Besides, they were a small tribe with little influence – not powerful enough for Turcaill to build his future upon an alliance with them.

Aside from lost allies, he had other things to worry about. He did not know the young man Geirrod, who had been given to the blacksmith, in indentured servitude, but he knew the youngling was the son of Gotharr, one of the lesser jarls. He remembered having seen him, barely more than a boy back then, in Siltric Jarl’s tent, as his father’s standard bearer. And if _he_ could remember the lad, the lad might remember _him_ , too. Or would one day, once he had become familiar with Esgaroth and the people that dwelt in it. And _that_ would be most unfortunate.

Turcaill had only been to Rhûn and Siltric Silkbeard’s dwellings a handful of times, and that had been years ago, when his sister Heledd had still been alive. He found it better when as few Easterlings knew his face and about his alliance with Siltric Jarl as possible. It had worked well in all those years. He would not allow some captured pup to destroy the useful shield of camouflage he had worked on for so long and so diligently – and sometimes a pre-emptive strike was a much better solution than trying to pick up the pieces afterwards.

“We cannot allow the youngling to remember,” the spymaster said to Prostr, his most faithful servant. “My position will be precarious enough for a while as it is ‘til I can build up a new alliance with another Khimmer jarl. He must be silenced ere he would realize that he might be a danger for me.”

Prostr, a shaggy, ill-humoured man in his late fifties, shrugged. He cared not for the young Easterling, one way or another.

“It cannot be too hard to slip some poison into his food or drink,” he said. “The one the water goblins use for their fishing spears should do the trick – it has no cure, and its symptoms are like those of the common seizure of the heart. No one would suspect any foul play.”

Turcaill nodded in agreement. “See to it,” he said. “The sooner he is dead, the easier can I breathe.”

“What about the lads in the old town?” asked Prostr. “Have you given up on them entirely, or do you intend to use them again?”

“Leave them to the water goblins,” said Turcaill coldly. “They have become way too rebellious lately, especially that Razar. Good thing he began to develop the lung fever; he would have caused us naught but trouble in a short time.”

“The others are still hale, though,” said Prostr. “They could still be useful; and you cannot hope to receive new lads from Rhûn for a while as things are right now.”

“True,” admitted Turcaill, “but they know too much already. Nay, ‘tis better to allow the water goblins take care of them for us. We should leave the place untouched for a while, ‘til things in Dale and Esgaroth return to normal. We have harvested enough to run the business for years yet… and _you_ will just have to find another things to play with,” he added with a nasty smirk.

“But what if they are found?” argued Prostr, ignoring the jibe. “As you said yourself, they know too much.”

“Who in Middle-earth would find them?” asked Turcaill in a bored tone. “The townspeople of both Dale and Esgaroth still fear to come close to the Dragon’s carcass. No-one would enter the old town.”

Prostr, who had his own reason to visit ruined Laketown one more time – a reason his Master had no knowledge of – shook his head in defeat. He knew there was no reasoning with his Master, once Turcaill had made up his mind. He would have to slip out of Esgaroth and go back to the ruined town on his own, in secret. But first he had to try and find some water goblins, in order to buy some of their poison off them.

Sitting upon the roof of the house, a silent shadow among other shadows, Drizzt Do’Urden was listening to them and found all that he had learned quite… interesting. When Master Turcaill retired for the night and Prostr left the house to go after his dark business, the Drow slipped down from the roof and followed him like a ghost.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Whatever Master Turcaill might have said, Prostr was _not_ going to leave his treasure – or his lads – to the questionable mercy of the water goblins. Well, not _all_ of them. He was willing to let Razar die. The lad had been naught but trouble lately, as he was growing into manhood. ‘Twas better to leave him to the goblins indeed. But Jouko and Már were at their best right now; ‘twould have been a terrible waste _not_ to use their strength and skill as long as they lasted… which still could be a few more years. And Prostr was definitely not leaving little Halli there to die. The boy was too sweet, too… pretty to become goblin food.

He could not bring the boy back to Esgaroth any more than he could leave him in Laketown, of course. Master Turcaill would not begrudge his trusted servant a plaything, but he would not want to have it under his own roof, where his wife, with her over-developed sense for decorum, could realize what was truly going on. She would even take affront of her husband fooling around with the maids; that woman just could not understand that a man had _needs_.

Nay, Prostr could not take that risk. There were harsh laws among the Lakemen against such things, and he did not want to end up hung publicly, after having been unmanned as a warning for everyone else. But he had a sister who had wedded some filthy swineherd on a not-too-distant farm. He could hide the boy there, disguised as a farm hand, and… visit him whenever he could find the time or the chance to get away from Esgaroth. As for the other lads, he would make them understand that they belonged to _him_ now, as Master Turcaill had given up on them. If they wanted to live, they had better work for him twice as hard and be grateful for his goodness of heart. After all, had he not always cared for them?

Decision made, he still had to wait to set his plan into motion, though. It would do no good for him, should Master Turcaill notice his departure. The spymaster was known to react badly if his orders were not respected – and to express his displeasure in the most unpleasant manner. Thus Prostr waited patiently ‘til the entire family turned in for the night. When all chambers had been dark for quite some time, he slipped out of the house and sneaked down to the harbour.

The violent storm that had hit the Lake on the previous afternoon had let many of the mooring ships battered; but Prostr did not want any of the bigger ones to begin with. All he needed was a small boat that could be handled by a single oarsman. If he bound little Halli’s wrists and ankles, he could hide the boy under some large pieces of canvas and bring him to the farmstead of his brother-in-law, a little further down the lakeshore. The sacks with his hidden treasure would keep; they were safe enough where he had put them. ‘Twas the boy who needed to be brought to a place where no-one would look for him.

Prostr was careful enough _not_ to approach his master’s ship. The boatmen serving on it were faithful to Turcaill – not out of love but because he knew secrets about them for which they would be hung, mayhap even without a trial. The spymaster liked it when his servants were completely at his mercy; when he could decide if they should live or die.

So nay, Prostr was not foolish enough to reveal his secrets to the boatmen, and he knew he would never be able to steal a boat from the ship on their watch. But other merchants did not keep watchmen on their ships all the time, and he could reasonably hope to be able to take a boat from one of those.

He chose Master Ketill’s own ship, for that was a _knarr_ he knew well enough, having been on board of it several times on Master Turcaill’s behalf. He knew where the boats were stored, and that they were easy to remove by someone who knew how to do it.

Creeping aboard the _knarr_ was child’s play. Finding his way down to the small boats proved no more difficult. But when he was just about to cut the hope holding the boat of his choice, he heard a hissing noise from behind his back. Whirling around, all he could see was a pair of glowing, purple-red eyes, ere a blow to his head knocked him out cold.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To tell the truth, Master Ketill was a tad miffed when shaken awake by his manservant, Ecglaf, in the middle of the night. Being the Master of the Town did mean that he had to live with such small inconveniences from time to time and he had long accepted that fact. It did _not_ mean, however, that he had to _like_ said inconveniences when they happened… and he honestly did not. Past seventy, he needed his undisturbed sleep to keep up with both his business and his duties.

“What is it?” he asked morosely but kept his voice low, as not to wake up his wife who was sleeping on his side.

“The Dark Elf has come, Master Ketill,” whispered Ecglaf. “He has caught Prostr, Master Turcaill’s servant, as he tried to steal a boat from your own ship!”

All thoughts of sleep fled from Master Ketill’s mind at once. He rose from his bed carefully, put on a thick woollen dressing gown over his nightshirt against the chill of the night – his aging bones could not deal with the cold as they once had – and padded, barefooted as he could not find his shoes in his hurry, down to the counting room of his shop, which also served as his study and his office in one. Living space being precious and restricted in Esgaroth, each room had to have multiple uses.

The Dark Elf was standing in a shadowy corner, barely visible in the shadows, his strange, purple eyes glowing in the darkness. It was a somewhat... unsettling sight, and Master Ketill had to remind himself that this dangerous creature was their ally… their life-saver, in fact, for who else would have been able to slay the Nazgûl of Dol Guldur? Not even King Bard had been able to do so.

Still, the Dark Elf made Master Ketill uncomfortable. His looks, his strange powers, the dangerous air about him… hopefully, Master Otir was not planning to keep him in Esgaroth. This was a town of Men, had always been, and even though they had excellent trading contacts with both Elves and Dwarves – and even to the Beornings who were a race unto themselves – the Master of the Town preferred to have his own kind around him and no-one else.

For the time being, though, he found it better to be courteous with the eerie creature whom they all owed their never-ending gratitude.

“How can I be of service, Master Elf?” he asked.

The Dark Elf gestured towards the bound and gagged Man whom he had placed in the other corner.

“As you had asked me, I was watching the spymaster’s house,” he said. “I heard this one discussing with him poisoning the Khimmer youth who is now indentured to the Master Blacksmith. It appears the lad saw the spymaster in Siltric Jarl’s tent a few times, and Turcaill does not want him to speak about it.”

Master Ketill shook his head in sorrow. “It saddens me to have judged his character so wrongly,” he said. “To think that I even married off my only daughter to him… But why would this one try to steal a boat from my ship? He could not flee far with a small boat, if that was his intention.”

“I do not believe it was,” replied the Dark Elf. “I think he wanted to go no further than the old town… or what still is there of it.”

“Why would he wish to do so?” asked Master Ketill in bewilderment. “Laketown of old is in ruins. No-one dwells there any longer, for all fear the curse of the Dragon that lies dead under the ruins, in the water.”

“Mayhap you are mistaken,” said the Dark Elf. “I could not understand everything they talked about, for my Westron is far from flawless, and your people speak it differently than the Elves of the Wood or even the Men of Dale do. But I am fairly certain that _someone_ is still living in the old town… they spoke of ‘lads’ who do some kind of work for the spymaster. This one,” he gestured towards his prisoner again, “wanted them to continue that work, but the spymaster told him to leave the ‘lads’ for the water goblins… whatever those might be.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Master Ketill. “There are no water goblins in the Lake; they only exist in the outrageous horror tales of old fishwives.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked the Dark Elf doubtfully. “Just because you have never met them, it means not that they would not exist. These two seemed very certain about it.”

But Master Ketill was not easily persuaded. Fisherfolk tended to tell hair-raising tales about monsters that supposedly lived in the Lake all the time. Water goblins, winged fairies, turtles of the size of small islands, man-eating fish, flying fish, sea serpents – there were tall tales about all of them. Which did not mean that they truly existed. He found it a little surprising that a clever and worldly man like Spymaster Turcaill would believe in any of them. The man might be a traitor, but he was no fool.

Whether or not water goblins existed, though, he needed to do something about Prostr first – and about Turcaill later. He looked at Ecglaf.

“Call the Town Guard,” he ordered. “Have this man shut away in the holding cell and tell no-one who he is. We shall deal with him – and with his master – in the morning.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the next day, however, the _faering_ of Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter’s ship arrived, with a desperate plea for help. It seemed that the ship had been caught in the sudden storm two days earlier, and that they had been barely able to reach the ruins of old Laketown. Whatever they might have found there, the four oarsmen did not say, only that there had been several sick and injured people, and that they needed a good healer.

After some argument, it was Onundr Otirsson who finally offered to sail over to the old town, taking a healer and some of his own boatmakers with him, to see whether they could make Yrsa’s ship lakeborne again. A few hours later the _Lame Duck_ left the harbour of Esgaroth, taking Yrsa’s four oarsmen with them, as these wanted to help with the rescuing of their comrades. As there was no wind to help them along the way, they expected to reach Laketown late in the evening.

Originally Drizzt wanted to go with them – he would like to see the old town and the remains of the Dragon, as he had had ample dealings with such beasts back in Faerûn, in his previous life. But in the light of the current events – including Prostr’s attempt to escape – Master Otir asked him to stay for the time being, promising to take him over with his own ship, once things had calmed down. Thus Drizzt remained in Master Otir’s house during the day and went to watch the spymaster’s in the night.

Another day later, the _Lame Duck_ returned, bringing home Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter and her maid, a pretty little coquette by the name of Gitte. Her hired oarsmen and Iskjald Holgersson, the captain of her ship, remained with Onundr Otirsson’s boat-makers in the old town to help repair her ship, it was explained.

That sounded convincing enough for the Lakemen, who were used to small – or not so small – accidents on the Lake. But Drizzt’s keen eyes spotted the Elven boat lying aboard the _Lame Duck_ , and he also noticed that the _knarr_ remained at the quay of Yrsa’s house all day, instead of returning to the harbour, although no-one but the mistress of the house and her maid were going to and from between ship and house.

“There is something going on,” he commented softly, having watched the events from the shadowed balcony of Master Otir’s house.

His host nodded in agreement.

“They must have found something… or _someone_... in the old town,” said the Man. “Someone they do not want to be seen… not _yet_ , in any case. I assume they are waiting for the night to bring that person – or persons – to Yrsa’s house.“ He paused, then added dryly. “Unless my son has finally decided to take a wife again, that is.”

There was something in his voice that caught the Drow’s interest. He could not tell whether the Man would support or object his firstborn’s move, should Onundr indeed choose to marry again – so he asked Otir straightforward.

“Would you be against such thing?”

The Lakeman shook his head. “On the contrary, Master Elf. I would be most relieved if my errant son finally chose to do the right thing.”

“You seem to have… different approaches on life,” said Drizzt diplomatically. He could tell that there was conflict between father and son – and had probably been for quite some time – and, to tell the truth, he was curious to find out why.

The Man nodded. “I wanted him to follow me as the Master Archer of Esgaroth,” he explained, “but he did not want to become a warrior – a shame, and him as big and strong as a bear! But, well, being a boat-maker is a good, honest craft, too, and a much-needed one in a town like ours, so I apprenticed him to Old Alfvaldr, who was the boat-maker back then.”

“Better a content craftsman than a reluctant warrior,” said Drizzt.

The Man nodded again. “So it is, Master Elf, and he did well enough at the beginning. He learned his craft well, married Sigga Alfvaldrsdaughter, and I was content, for it seemed that he had found his way at least. But then Sigga died in childbirth, barely a year later, and my son refused to marry again, after the time of mourning was over. Instead, he took a thrall woman into his house and fathered three children by her ere her family managed to buy her free again.”

“And after that?” Drizzt was truly fascinated, as he had not heard of this particular aspect of life in Rhovanion so far.

Master Otir sighed. “She then returned to her people, leaving the children behind, as they belonged by right with their father – and still my son refused to take a new wife.”

“Had he loved his first wife so much?” asked Drizzt. Such devotion was uncommon among Men, but it did happen from time to time.

The Man shrugged. “They were fond enough of each other, I suppose, but it had been a marriage of convenience more than aught else,” he replied. “He married her so that he would earn the right to take over Old Alfvaldr’s shipyard, even though the healers warned them that Sigga was too young and too fragile for childbearing. She had always been a sickly child, or so they say. Onundr took it into his head that he was to blame for her death, and that was it with him and marrying again after that.”

“And yet he sired children with that thrall woman of his, as you say,” said Drizzt.

“Aye, but that Hildburgh was of the Northmen, big and strong and healthy like a prize mare,” answered Master Otir, “and so are the children she bore him. I assume he hoped she would stay with him, once she was free to choose. But she wanted to return to her people – never liked living on the Lake, that one, and missed the green fields and horse herds of her home. So she went back, the first time she could, and Onundr hired the widow Glaur to care for the children.”

“Are such children who were born out of wedlock considered full heirs?” asked the Drow, knowing that in many Mannish lands it was not so.

The Lakeman nodded. “Aye, as long as the father accepts them as his, which Onundr has done. But a respected craftsman like him is expected to have a wife and a proper household – not to live alone with his by-blows and an elderly nursemaid.”

“Would any woman have him, knowing he already has fathered children with a thrall?” wondered Drizzt.

Master Otir laughed. “Oh, aye, more so one who has little hope to have babes of her own, be it due to age or due to some sort of illness. There are a good number of spinsters – or widows – who would gladly have him as their husband… if he only were not so stubborn!”

“And would _you_ accept someone like Mistress Yrsa in your family?” asked Drizzt, knowing that Men often gave looks more importance than they should.

The Man shrugged. “To be honest, Master Elf, I would very much welcome a match like that. Yrsa might not be young, and she is certainly far from being even remotely pretty; but she is a well-to-do woman with a craft of her own, she is a Guild head and a highly respected one at that. Marrying her would reflect well on Onundr, and on our entire family. So what is she is too old to have children of her own? At least there would be no strife about inheritances when the children are grown.”

Drizzt could not help but laugh. “You have figured it all out in your head, have you not?” he said, amused. “I wonder what the two would say to it, though.”

“So do I,” admitted Master Otir, a little sourly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning, however, Esgaroth awoke to such shocking news that even those who had taken notice of the constant coming and going between the _Lame Duck_ and the house of Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter – and there had been quite a few who had – forgot all about it at once. It seemed that more important things were coming up than just the potential marriage between the heirs of two respected families.

For right at daybreak, the Town Guard surrounded Spymaster Turcaill’s house, and shortly thereafter the spymaster, his wife and their three children were led away. The hands of Master Turcaill were bound behind his back with strong leather thongs, and he seemed exceptionally pale. His family could walk freely, but the Guards kept a sharp eye on them. They were brought to the Town Hall, where – according to rumours started by the bailiff – they were locked up separately in the small chambers that usually served as archive rooms.

At the same time, the two _knarr_ s of Master Turcaill were searched by the authority of Harbour Master Thorleif. The boatmen were told to disembark and taken to one of the warehouses, where they remained under strong watch. The urchins of the harbour could see as large wooden chests were removed from the ships and brought to the Town Hall.

An hour or so later, the Town Guard appeared at the house of Master Dufnall, the blacksmith. They went into the house, remained there for a while, and when they left again, they took the young Easterling named Geirrod, son of Gotharr, who – as everyone knew – had been apprenticed to master Dufnall for an indeterminate time with them…right to the Town Hall. Some noticed, though, that the young giant was _not_ bound and seemed to follow the Guards readily enough.

Shortly thereafter the Master Blacksmith, too, left the house. He did not seem particularly concerned about the well-being of his apprentice, although his face was grim. He went straight to the house of Master Otir and remained there for the rest of the morning. As it was common knowledge that the Master Bowman was currently housing the strange Dark Elf that had followed him back from the Siege of Dale, _that_ fact provided fuel for the most interesting speculations.

Another hour later the Town Guard appeared again. They marched down to the harbour, where the Khimmer warriors – the ones that had been captured after the first battle and brought to town – were kept in heavy chains, twenty in the number. The Guards selected the oldest of them – a stocky, one-eyed bear of a Man, whose long, iron-grey hair was bound in two tails behind his ear – and escorted him to the Town Hall, keeping him in chains all the way.

By then, speculations were running wild throughout the town. More so as no-one of the authorities showed themselves: neither the Master of the Town, nor Bekan Kolbeinsson, the town’s lawman, nor any of the Guild heads. Only the Town Guard patrolled along the quays, and they answered no questions, saying that the news would be soon cried through the streets anyway.

And indeed, soon after the noon bell, the criers appeared on the streets, from the Market-pool to the harbour everywhere, and announced that Spymaster Turcaill had been accused of having made secret business with the enemy during the war... and of other wrongdoings as well. A hearing and a trial would be held shortly, they said, in the presence of all Guild heads and that of all respected townspeople who wanted to witness and could find a seat in the Town Hall. The first hearing would take place in the fourth hour after the noon bell, they said, but they answered no further questions, either.

The news, needless to say, stirred up the town like a hornet’s nest. All of a sudden, everyone wanted to have their lunch meal and be done with it in time, so that they could go to the Town Hall and watch the hearing. No-one could truly imagine that their spymaster would have done such things, but all agreed that Master Turcaill had always been a little… strange, and were eager to find out how much of the accusations were true. The shops were buzzing with people going about their business as fast as they could, and gossiping women leaned out of their windows to discuss the news with their friends on the other side of the narrow streets – in Esgaroth you did not need to leave your house to speak with the ones who lived opposite you.

In the fourth hour after the noon bell the Council Chamber in the Town Hall was bursting full. Those who did not have their reserved seats, like the Guild heads and other most respectable _burghers_ , stood along the walls or sat in the windows, outside the room, anxious not to miss a word of what was coming.

There could be no doubt that Esgaroth had not had such a spectacle for a long time – and perchance would not have for a long time to come. ‘Twas understandable that everyone wanted to be part of it, if in no other way than as an uninvolved witness.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter discusses truly disturbing things to a certain extent (nothing in-depth, descriptive or detailed, but still), so it is only for adult readers.  
> For the layout of Esgaroth, once again, I used Karen Fonstad’s Atlas of Middle-earth. The Town Hall has vague similarities with Beorn’s house in structure but not in its final shape.  
> The social structure of the Lakemen is based on old Scandinavian society, although there are marked differences, starting with the Lakemen’s more peaceful nature. The Great Gathering is something similar to the thing, in which every free man had the right to participate. For the trial itself, I consulted “Life in a Medieval Town” by Frances and Joseph Gies, particularly what is said there about the legal practice of charter towns. Nonetheless, this is not a simple copy of medieval customs, just based on them.

****  
**PART 24**

As living space was precious in a town as constricted as Esgaroth, the Town Hall, like all public buildings, utilized the available space most cleverly. It was surprisingly large, compared with other public places – with the possible exception of the Great Feasting Hall at the Market-Pool – about twenty by thirty-five feet, capable of taking in the entire _Guild Merchant_ during the Small Gathering. This consisted of all those merchants and craftspeople who had been acknowledged as masters of their craft, which meant over two hundred people, after all, not counting the _drakkar_ captains, who also had the right to participate, the Master Bowman, the captain of the Town Guard and other folk who, if not exactly _burghers_ , were highly respected nonetheless.

To house so many people during important events, wooden platforms were raised along three of the hall’s four walls. These platforms went up in wide, steep steps as high as four levels, like some sort of wooden terrace, and on each level comfortable seats had been crafted for the respectable _burghers_ and _burghesses_ , carved of wood and padded with flat pillows to make them more comfortable.

The only wall left empty was the short one right from the entrance. There, on a long, narrow dais, canopied seats stood for the members of the Town Council (the ruling body re-elected every ten years, as the Lakemen believed in giving their chosen rulers enough time to prove their leadership skills), and right before the dais stood the desks of the clerks who made records of all the dealings during a Gathering.

According to ancient custom, which the Lakemen had brought with them from their home of old in the North, every free-born man and woman had the right to participate in the Great Gathering, or to witness the meetings of the town Council, which were, without exception, public. People were entitled to know how the decisions that concerned their daily lives were made. And, unlike in any other town in Eriador or Rhovanion – ever in Dale, people let their rules hold council and make decisions on their own – the Lakemen found delight in knowing what was going on in the Town Hall. Whenever their work allowed, they came to listen to the Council meetings… and protested _very_ vocally whenever they felt that a foolish choice was about to be made.

Drizzt found this livid interest for public welfare heartening. It reminded him a little at Ten-Towns, where the settlements did not have an overlord, either, and had to settle their disputes among themselves. And while Esgaroth was a far more pleasant place than any settlement in Ten-Towns could hope for, that fact made him feel at home… a little.

“Will Master Ketill lead the hearing?” he asked his host as they were walking towards the Town Hall on the western quay.

Master Otir shook his head. “Nay, for he must make his own testimony as a witness. Besides, he is kin to Turcaill by marriage; it would not be proper for him to judge the man. His brother, Master Kolbeinn – who is the magistrate of the town – will preside. He is an educated lawperson – he was taught the laws and customs of Dale as well as those of our kinsmen in the North – and so is his son Bekan, who will represent the town in this case. A selected body of Guild heads and other respected people will serve as co-judges… including myself, as I was no witness to any of Turcaill’s actions and thus can be considered as impartial.”

“You have lawyers among you?” Drizzt did not know why he was so surprised. Perhaps because the Lakemen seemed such simple, straightforward people, with no need for help to deal with disagreements.

Master Otir grinned and shrugged his undamaged shoulder; the other one still could not do even such simple gestures well, and it was doubtful if it ever would.

“They are not well-loved, for sure,” he admitted. “People resent their pretensions, and their pedantic interpretations of our laws and customs irritate everyone,” he laughed briefly and rolled his eyes. “They insist on exact forms and formulas about just _everything_! But they I needed, I must admit _that_. They keep records of all the crimes committed, and reviewing the old cases often can help us to make the right judgement.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the bailiff who summoned Master Otir to the Hall. Drizzt was asked to wait outside ‘til he, too, was called in to make his testimony.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Under normal circumstances the Guild heads and other important people served town justice in a rotation. Only four or five of them were usually needed to judge in such minor cases as petty theft, fraud or minor assault. This time, however, they had to deal with treason, slavery and grand theft – and with even more disturbing crimes where the servant Prostr was concerned – and thus the combined wisdom of more people was required.

Those who had a testimony to make could not be chosen as judges, of course. But Esgaroth had enough wise and experienced men and women – for they made no distinction based on gender, unlike in some other lands – to choose from.

And thus there were selected: Mistress Arnthrud, the head of the _Ropemakers' Guild_ ; Saemund, the Master Carpenter of the town; Master Shaering, the oldest of the shoemakers, who was also head of the _Leatherers’ Guild_ ; Master Otir, nominally still the captain of the archers; Mistress Solveig, the baker, with her husband Thorgils Miller; Master Oddmar, the tailor (who happened to have married Thórvé Otirsdaughter); Ölmódhr, the Master Bronzesmith and Master Víglund, the barber-surgeon.

They took their places in the row of canopied seats but did not sit yet. The bailiff, who had been waiting next to the entrance, now slammed down the intricately wrought staff of his office (it was the best Dwarven handiwork, with a bronze dragon sitting on its upper end) and exclaimed loudly.

“Harken, harken!” All rise to greet Master Kolbeinn, the Magistrate!”

People rose from their seats respectfully, and in came Kolbeinn, the brother of Master Ketill, with his son Bekan at his elbow and two clerks in tow. The two lawyers had a vague similarity to the Master of the Town, although in a younger and – in Kolbeinn’s case – much more voluminous version. He was easily the fattest Man Drizzt had seen since his arrival to Middle-earth; almost bloated, in fact, which reminded Drizzt unpleasantly of the Driders of his homeland.

Barely had the lawmen entered the Gathering Hall, Drizzt was summoned already. The bailiff escorted him to the canopied seats of the judges, and one of the clerks asked for his full name.

“I am Drizzt Do’Urden, from the House _Daernon N'shezbaernon_ ,” he used the ancient name of his House, for more effect, and was darkly amused to see the clerk’s difficulty to spell it.

As polite as the Lakemen were to him, he could feel that not all of them had taken his presence in Master Otir’s house as easily as the Master Bowman’s family. They were not hostile, never that, but they were wary around him, more so than the Men of Dale would be. Apparently some still suspected that he would be some sort of Orc or whatnot, just because of his dark skin.

“And where are you from, Master Drizzt?” asked the clerk, using only his given name as was the Lakemen’s custom.

“Menzoberranzan,” replied the Drow. “It is one of the great underground cities of the Drow – the Dark Elves – in what we call the Underdark. But you need not to worry,” he added with a crooked smile, seeing their pale faces. “The way that led me here has been closed forever. No-one can come over from my world again.”

“Does that mean that you cannot return home, either?” asked Mistress Arnthrud, an iron-grey goodwife with arms that would make a grown man proud.

“Nay, I cannot,” answered Drizzt, “but that concerns me little. There is nothing left for me in Faerûn; I shall be content enough to live out my remaining years with King Thranduil’s people in Mirkwood.”

The fact that he apparently did not plan to live among them seemed to put their minds at ease.

“That will be a long time,” commented the shoemaker, a small, rotund man with a ruddy face and short-cropped white hair, almost compassionately. “You are an Elf. Elves do not die, unless slain in battle – and, hopefully, there will be no more battles for many years to come.”

“That is my hope as well,” said Drizzt. “But we Drow are different from the Elves of Middle-earth. We have a long life – four hundred years or more can we live, if we are not killed before our time – but we are as mortal as you are.”

“Are you now?” that seemed to shock Master Shaering a little, but Master Kolbeinn intervened ere he could have asked any more questions that did not concern the official hearing.

“Master Elf, we have been told that you were watching Spymaster Turcaill’s house during the recent nights,” he said. “What moved you to do so?”

“It was at the request of the Master of the Town,” replied Drizzt. “He told me that some proof had been found for the spymaster’s recent dealings with the enemy, and he asked me to watch the house, lest the spymaster tried to escape.”

“Have you seen any sign of Master Turcaill planning to do so?” asked the Magistrate.

Drizzt shook his head. “Nay; he seemed to have no idea of being suspected. He did order his servant, though, to poison the young Easterling; the one who has been apprenticed to the Master Blacksmith.”

“Why would he do that?” Ölmódhr Bronzesmith was shaken by such a cold-blooded plan. “The lad had never done him any harm.”

“But he could have done so in the future, or so the spymaster feared,” explained the Drow. “It appears that the lad saw him in Siltric Jarl’s tent once or twice. He might remember that, the spymaster said, and that must not happen.”

“Did you hear what kind of poison they wanted to use?” asked the barber-surgeon quietly. Poisons – and the possible way to counteract them – were his field of expertise, and he was always eager to learn more.

Drizzt nodded. “Something the water goblins would use, they said; and that it has no cure and produces the symptoms of a common heart seizure.”

The barber-surgeon looked at the head judge in alarm. “We must search the spymaster’s house again!” he said urgently. "If he has samples of such a poison stored away, it must _not_ fall in the wrong hands!”

“Nonsense,” said the Master Carpenter. “There are no such things as water goblins.”

“I would not be sure,” replied the barber-surgeon, who had been called to Mistress Yrsa’s house last night to be instructed in the treatment of little Halli but sworn to secrecy until the whole truth would be revealed. “Yet even if they are but a myth, the poison apparently does exist. They intended to use it. We must find it and make sure no-one can lay a hand on it for their own purposes.”

“Agreed,” said Master Kolbeinn. “We might count on the help of Turcaill’s wife; we shall hear her next. But first tell us, Master Elf: have you learned anything else?”

“If I understood them correctly, they had some boys kept in chains among the ruins of the old town,” answered Drizzt, “to dive under the Lake and harvest the gems and gold from the Dragon’s corpse for them.”

That piece of news made everyone gasp in disbelief. The fear from the Dragon, even in its death, even so many years after the fiery destruction of the old town, was still very strong.

“What evil will moved them to do so?” Solveig Baker shook her head in exasperation. “They should know the treasure is cursed.”

“Nonsense!” said the barber-surgeon. “’Tis no more cursed than the gold we were given as reparation and to rebuild our town. Still, it is worrisome that Master Turcaill would do so. It appears that the Dragon Sickness, which caused the death of his forefather, the Master of the old town, had befallen him, too. A sad business it is; we must see to the depths of it.”

“We already have,” said Master Kolbeinn, “and terrible things have we learned. But, as the old sailor says, we must climb the mast one man after another, or the ship will keel over. If there are not further questions to Master Drizzt, we shall hear the testimony of Eydís Ketillsdaughter, Turcaill’s wife.”

There were no more questions, and thus Drizzt was allowed to find a place to sit in the Hall, while the Town Guards brought in Turcaill’s wife. She was a handsome woman for one who had three grown children (not to mention two others who had died in childhood): round and wholesome like a freshly-baked loaf and rosy with good health. Usually, she must have been a person of cheerful nature; right now, however, she seemed quite shaken from the sudden turn to the worse in her so well-ordered life.

She wore a fine dress in the best Dale fashion, but her wheat-blond hair – the kind that conceals the first grey strands for quite some time – was not properly done, just twisted into a knot in a hurry… and she was not wearing any jewellery, which, as every single Lakeman could have told Drizzt, was highly unusual. Perchance she had been taken from her home without proper time to make herself fully presentable. The hours spent alone in an empty archive chamber since then probably had not helped, either, if her tear-streaked cheeks were any indication.

But in whatever state her mind might be, she showed no weakness before the judges. She came in, erect and proud, in the certain knowledge that she could not be blamed for the actions of her husband – not willing to share the shame of a man who had not valued her enough to share his secrets with her. There could be little doubt that she would answer all questions truthfully.

Master Kolbeinn let the barber-surgeon be the one to question her, as he himself was her kin by marriage and could have been accused of being partial. While not a lawman himself, Master Víglund was an experienced man with a keen mind, used to make a distinction between truth and falseness. He would serve well as the questioner.

All his skills brought little result, though. Mistress Eydís, although she answered every question willingly – not to mention in abundant detail – clearly knew very little of her husband’s business… or any other activities of his, for that matter. At least she could tell them how often Turcaill had boarded one of his ships to travel south in the last year, or how often he would leave with a caravan of pack animals and carts, and how long he had been away. Those details given by her corresponded with the entries in her husband’s books, at least, so they had to be correct.

Seeing that Mistress Eydís would likely not be able to tell them anything of true interest, the judges released her, but asked her to stay in the Hall, in case they needed something to be confirmed. Next, the Magistrate summoned the spymaster’s only son.

Thorodd Turcaillsson was much like his father in his looks – rather on the shortish side, with russet hair and handsome features – but he had his mother’s gentle blue eyes. He readily told them everything about his father’s business… as far as he knew about it. For as much as he was supposed to earn said business one day, he seemed to know only about the legal part of it. Apparently, Master Turcaill had no thought him worthy to be trusted with the more… questionable choices.

“My father never considered me a worthy son; or my sister Arneidh a worthy daughter,” he added bitterly. “If you want to learn about his secrets, you must ask Sydne. She alone has ever been Father’s confidante, and privy to his… unofficial business.”

The judges asked a few more questions, but it was obvious that the young man knew nothing of importance. So they released him and called for Arneidh, his sister, who looked every bit like their mother – just twenty or so years younger. Her heavy sheaf of straw-blonde hair was coiled up on both sides of her kind, rosy face, and she wore simple clothes in local fashion, albeit made of fine linen instead of rough wool. She had not learned any craft on a level that would feed her, but she was known to be a passable weaver and seamstress who also did decent embroidery. What might be needed in a wealthy household, she would manage.

It was gossiped all over town that Gudhleif, the Harbour Master’s widowed son, had taken a liking to her, and that she was not unwilling to have him, either. Master Turcaill, however, had not given his consent yet, and many waggling tongues speculated that he would wish to see his younger daughter married off safely to the most promising suitor first – either to Gudhleif or to someone else, people were of two minds about that. The only thing to know for certain was that Arneidh, although seven years older, had to wait for Sydne’s future to be secured first.

If she was hurt by that, she concealed it well. She answered the questions of the judges honestly, but she could not tell much, as she had never been involved in the family business, not even as far as her brother. Unlike their mother, she _did_ seem frightened of the future, though – which was understandable. As the daughter of a convict and a traitor, she now had little hope for a good life. Drizzt felt sorry for her; he knew how easily innocents could be swept away with the flood meant to wash out the guilty party.

Seeing that she could tell nothing useful, the judges released her, too, and called in Sydne, her younger sister, a girl of barely sixteen years. Now, _this_ was a true daughter of her father’s, if there had ever been one, Drizzt decided, recognizing the shared features, the comely shape – and guessing a highly questionable mind within. The girl had inherited her father’s somewhat shorter stature – no doubt, the sign of an ancestor hailing from Dale – but was still tall enough to carry her graceful flesh with an ease and elegance that made her mother and sister appear rustic compared with her. Her colouring, too, was darker than theirs. She had a coiled braid of thick, russet hair, clustered in curls that framed a high, pale forehead, and dark, calculating eyes that missed nothing beneath straight brows that almost met above a finely bent nose and were darker brown than her hair.

She was wearing a dark green bliaut in the finest Dale fashion, looking flawlessly presentable, unlike the rest of her family. Despite her youth and beauty, there was clearly a dark, sinister mind working beyond the pleasant surface. Particularly her eyes made Drizzt shiver. Aside from the different colour, they reminded him of his sister’s. He pitied the man who would wed her one day, for clearly, she was born to rule whatever household would be given into her care, and rule with an iron fist.

She stood demurely before the judges, with downcast eyes, her trembling fingers tearing on the fine linen kerchief in her small hands, and answered every question with a readiness that was clearly false yet could not be proved as such. Her answers were not lies, but they revealed nothing either. She could avoid any direct question and talk around it with a skill that was almost eerie. Even her voice, low-pitched yet child-like, was meant to awake sympathy and trust… and it was fake, too. Drizzt could feel it, yet he could not quite put his finger on the actual falseness. She was like a slippery eel, winding herself out of every net, looking frightened and innocent all the time, yet knowing exactly what she wanted and how to get it.

Seeing that they would not get with her anywhere, the judges released Sydne Turcaillsdaughter and had brought in the father, for whom this whole trial had been called in the first place. They had him stand before them in chains, ‘in case he would try to do anything foolish’, as Master Kolbeinn explained. The head judge then began the questioning.

“Are you Turcaill, son of Allun, husband to Eydís Ketillsdaughter, father to Arneidh, Thorodd and Sydne?” he asked.

“I am,” replied the spymaster shortly. He did not seem overly worried – not yet.

“Have you served as the spymaster of this town for the last twenty-six years?” continued Master Kolbeinn.

“I have,” replied Turcaill.

“Have you been also doing business with the Easterlings during this time, particularly with a Khimmer jarl by the name of Siltric Silkbeard?” asked Master Kolbeinn.

“Of course,” answered Turcaill. “That was the only way to ensure the safety of my sister Heledd, and that of her son Ásgeirr. Besides, they provided me with useful information about the things that were going on in the lands of Rhûn. It served Esgaroth’s best interests. I truly cannot understand what I am accused of – and why. The merchants of Birka are all doing business with the Easterlings, after all.”

“There are many different kinds of business, not all of them honest… or wholesome for our town,” growled Master Otir. “Tell me again, how did your sister end up in Siltric Silkbeard’s court?”

“She was abducted, of course,” said Turcaill. “We have tried to buy her free for years, but to no end.”

“ _Abducted_ ,” repeated Master Otir slowly. “And yet both she and her son were in the position to spy on Siltric Jarl on your behalf. That is… unusual, to say the least.”

Turcaill shrugged. “She was in her master’s favour.”

“Which is highly unusual again,” pointed out Master Otir, turning to the other judges. “Based on what I know about the Easterlings – and I _do_ know a great deal about them – a woman taken from her own people by force would _not_ carry much favour with her owner… or have any privileges at all. She would be considered cattle; war booty, and her children would be mere slaves… or privileged servants at best, if they were pretty enough and if their mother indeed had her master’s ear. Something here does not ring true.”

“Fortunately, we have a way to achieve more clearance in this matter,” said Master Kolbeinn; then he turned to the bailiff. “Send in Master Dufgall’s young thrall.”

The bailiff nodded and went to fetch the young giant, who stood before the judges proudly, pressing his large fists to his chest as a sign of respect, in the manner of his own people. He was wearing simple clothes of good, homespun wool, and aside from his size, he almost looked like one of the Lakemen.

“Are your Geirrod, son of Gotharr Jarl, who is now a thrall of Dufnall Blacksmith to pay off a life debt to your master?” asked the head judge.

“I am,” replied the young Easterling proudly. There was nothing shameful in his current position, and he had finally understood that.

“Your father used to be one of Siltric Silkbeard’s allies, did he not?” continued Master Kolbeinn.

The young man nodded. “That is true. He was second in the Tribe of the White Kine; and I used to be his herald and his standard bearer.”

“Which means you had to enter the chieftain’s tent before your father to announce him properly at war gatherings,” said Master Otir.

Geirrod nodded again. “So it is our custom. I have entered the tent – or the cave dwelling or the ale-house – of Siltric Jarl many times in the recent year. We fought many battles on his side.”

“Then you are familiar with his court and those who visited him often, I suppose,” said the Master Bowman.

“I am,” replied the young man, “but most of those are likely dead now.”

“Likely,” agreed Master Otir, “but mayhap not all. Take a look around you and tell us: can you see here anyone who used to be a recurring visitor in your overlord’s court?”

Geirrod did as he had been asked, taking his time in order to be thorough. Finally, his bright blue eyes stopped at Turcaill’s face.

“Him,” he said simply. “I saw him several times. I was told he is the brother of Siltric Jarl’s late wife, _Frau_ Heledd.”

“You say _late_ wife,” said the head judge. “Is it then true that she is no longer alive? Can you tell us how did she die?”

“She has died from the dry sickness, two summers ago,” explained the young man. “Our women often die young, as they hardly ever leave the safety of the caves in which we dwell between two wars. _Frau_ Heledd had been sickly and bedridden for years ere she succumbed to her illness. Most women beyond their first youth are.”

“Meaning that she could not supply her brother with any useful details about Siltric Jarl’s plans, the strength of his troops or anything else for quite a few years, could she?” concluded Master Kolbeinn.

“Of course not,” replied Geirrod with a snort. “And not just for the last few years. Siltric Jarl never trusted her. He suspected that she would spy on him on behalf of her brother, so he never allowed her anywhere she might overhear anything that could have been used against him. She was naught but Siltric’s pawn, so that her brother would keep supplying us with wares we needed… and with news about what was happening in Rhovanion.”

“I see,” the head judge gave the now deathly pale Turcaill a look that promised severe retributions. “What about her son?”

Geirrod snorted again. “Ásgeirr is the only one of Siltric’s get who is unworthy to be called a son… or even a Khimmer warrior. He is weak, unsteady and greedy – a good spy, but no warrior would ever follow him to battle. Siltric had many other, more capable sons from his concubines and slave women who made up his personal guards. Sigurrd was the strongest and most valiant of them… and also the most ruthless. Ásgeirr was tolerated at best and used to spy on the chieftain’s allies, but not part of his father’s counsels.”

“Was that the reason why he was captured in _your_ father’s camp?” asked Master Otir.

Drizzt saw Turcaill draw in a sudden breath. Apparently, the spymaster had not known that his nephew was among the prisoners and the news bothered him a great deal.

Geirrod nodded. “Siltric Jarl sent him with us to spy on us. That is all he could do; not even for breeding was he good, as he would have spread his inherited weakness within the tribe. He might be a legitimate son, but he certainly was an embarrassment for the chieftain.”

“And you are certain that Mistress Heledd used to be Siltric’s legally bound wife, not just some slave woman?” clarified Master Kolbeinn.”

“I _am_ sure,” answered Geirrod. “My father was invited to the chieftain’s bonding ceremony. She was his _wife_ – what it was worth for him… or her.”

“And neither she nor her son has ever spied on Siltric Jarl, in order to provide our spymaster here with information?” asked Master Kolbeinn.

Geirrod shook his head. “I cannot imagine that. She did not have the means – and Ásgeirr has always tried to achieve a good position at his father’s court. He would never have undermined the chieftain’s power, as that was the only thing that kept him alive.”

That sounded convincing enough. Master Kolbeinn asked the other judges if they had any other questions. They had not, and so Geirrod was released and Weochstan, the one-eyed, greying Khimmer warrior was called before them. He knew very little that would have been of any use, but he supported Geirrod’s testimony about Mistress Heledd’s true status, and that young Ásgeirr had been very much devoted to his father and never provided his uncle with anything that could have been used against Siltric Jarl.

At this point, Master Kolbeinn asked Turcaill if he would want to add something to his previous testimony. But the former spymaster remained in stony silence.

“As you wish,” said the head judge, more sadly than angrily. “I thought you would use the chance to ease your conscience; but I cannot force you to do so. Ws shall have a break of an hour now, so that everyone can have refreshments, and the scribes can finish their documents. After that, we shall continue the questioning with young Ásgeirr.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After the break – which Drizzt spent in the company of Gunnar Otirsson at the Market-pool, trying some of the local delicacies, which he found strange-tasting but agreeable – the trial continued. Like the onlookers and the judges themselves, Drizzt, too, was curious to see the much-discussed young man in the flesh… and was fairly surprised when Ásgeirr was finally led before the court, for the young man showed no trait of his Khimmer father at all. If anything, he came after his uncle - a great deal more than Turcaill’s own son.

The bear-sized Khimmer warriors might have found him wanting, but in the eyes of everyone else, he seemed like a compact, sound pillar of young manhood, with curly, russet hair framing his round face and dark, shrewd eyes under his heavy brows. He was still wearing the same clothes in which he had been captured: a fine, richly adorned leather tunic over the usual rough woollen trousers, and a long-sleeved shirt of fine cotton wool. His boots and his finely-made belt were crafted by a skilled leatherer, too, which fact already spoke of his position at his father’s court… both things belonging to the past now.

He could have been called a comely young man, if not for the unpleasant sneer on his youthful face. He seemed way too arrogant for someone in his current position, and Drizzt wondered whether he had been told about the outcome of the battle for Dale at all. Whether he knew that his father was dead and the war lost for the Easterlings. He glared at his judges quite defiantly, as if he would not accept their right to judge him in the first place. As if they were somehow inferior, compared with him.

Master Kolbeinn returned his look coldly. “Are you Ásgeirr, son of Siltric Jarl and the Lady Heledd, sister-son to Master Turcaill here?” he asked - for the records, as he knew all too well who the young man was.

“I _am_ Ásgeirr Siltricsson, aye,” replied the young man haughtily. “I count no kinship to your folk of fat and cowardly merchants, though.”

An angry murmur rose from the rows of the spectators, yet it was Geirrod Gotharrsson who answered the arrogant young man.

“Fat and cowardly, you say?” asked the blacksmith’s thrall challengingly. “I saw not fat or cowardly men among those who attacked my father’s camp and captured us both. They fought bravely and well – which cannot be said about you. Who has ever seen you in battle? No-one. Small wonder, though; a ten-year-old slave girl could wield a broadsword better than you.”

Although that was most likely greatly exaggerated, the battle-hardened Lakemen laughed uproariously. Once again, Drizzt was reminded of Wulfgar’s people, who liked to playfully insult each other’s prowess with the one or other weapon. The teasing then often resulted in a serious brawl, as no self-respecting barbarian would ever has such a challenge unanswered.

Young Ásgeirr, however, apparently lacked that kind of self-respect, for he just snorted and gave no proper answer to Geirrod’s challenge. So Master Kolbeinn saw the time ripe to take things into his own hands again.

“Whether you claim kinship with us or not, youngling, it matters little,” he said. “You _are_ kin to Master Turcaill, through his sister Heledd, who was the legally bonded wife of Siltric Silkbeard, Chieftain of the tribe of the White Kine. Or is it true what your uncle tells us: that your mother was no wife at all, just a slave woman, taken from her family by force?”

Drizzt had not expected the young man to walk into such an obvious trap so easily – yet Ásgeirr did. Either he was very foolish, or he did not consider it his duty to support his uncle; ‘twas hard to tell. Whatever his reasons might have been, he turned his back on the spymaster, and declared indignantly.

“My mother was the chieftain’s _wife_ – married off to Siltric Jarl after long negotiations, to build a bridge between our people and Laketown; or perhaps to give her brother the supposed guarantee that he would not be slain once we take over. She was not some war booty like my father’s other women!”

“ _Your_ people,” repeated Master Kolbeinn slowly. “I deem that would mean you consider yourself a Khimmer warrior.”

“Course I do!” hissed the young man indignantly.

“Sad for you that no-one else does,” commented Geirrod, grinning. “You have never been and _will_ never be a warrior! A trader, perchance; a spy, without doubt – but a warrior? You have neither the honour, nor the strength to become one, ever!”

Ásgeirr, became chalk white with fury and would have lounged at the other young man, had the Town Guard not held him back. The audience found the bragging quite entertaining; Master Kolbeinn, however, clearly did not.

“I shall not allow any more challenges from the side,” he declared. “Any-one disturbing the working of this court shall be punished with ten lashes of the flogger, administered to their bare back publicly, so that others could learn from it.”

That, finally, brought things back to proper order, and a head judge could continue the questioning of the witness. Not that it would bring any new insights. Ásgeirr indignantly denied having provided the spymaster with any news from within the Tribe, revealing that neither had his mother ever done anything like that. She was too scared to put her privileged status at risk. He seemed to have naught but contempt towards his uncle… a statement that all people present in the Town Hall heartily shared.

After releasing the young man, Master Kolbeinn asked for the former slave Bannâtha to be called in. The man, now wearing the simple garb of the common folk of Dale, gave testimony about having seen Master Turcaill in the tent of his own master, Revyak Jarl as well as with other warriors and traders. This made it clear for everyone that the spymaster had done business with more Khimmer jarls (and lesser Easterlings) than just his brother-in-law.

“For my part, I see it proven that Turcaill Allunsson has betrayed our town and planned to sell us off to the Easterlings,” summarized Master Kolbeinn. “Does any-one think differently?”

The other judges shook their heads as one.

“If we are all in agreement, I ask you to vote,” said the head judge. “The rest of the witnesses can be released; that will save us a great deal of time.”

As it was custom among the Lakemen, the bailiff went along their row, holding out a small basket to them. One by one, the judges placed their voting stones into that basket: white for innocent, black for guilty. When all had made their vote, the bailiff carried the basket to the head judge, who then counted the stones and declared the final decision.

This time, all the stones were black.

“The decision about Turcaill Allunsson, formerly spymaster of Esgaroth, has fallen,” announced Master Kolbeinn. “We have found him guilty of high treason. However, the sentence will not be declared ere we have investigated the other crimes he is accused of: namely slavery and grand theft against the people of Esgaroth. Are we in agreement about that, too?”

The other judges gave their consent again, and so Master Kolbeinn called Yrsa Brinningsdaughter as their first witness. Yrsa explained them how the storm had caught her ship in the middle of the Lake. How they had to seek refuge among the ruins of the old town. How they had found the young boys chained to the wall, half-starved and horribly mistreated. How they had tried to save little Halli, whose leg had been bitten off by the water goblins. How the other boys had dived under the lake after the storm to bring up the bags of golden scales and gemstones Master Turcaill had forced them to mine from the rotting corpse of the Dragon.

“Are the boys still alive?” asked the barber-surgeon.

Yrsa nodded. “Fortunately, the men whom I had sent home for help made good time. And the arrival of the Elven healer saved little Halli; otherwise we would have lost him for certain.”

“Are any of them well enough to give testimony?” inquired Solveig Baker.

“Razar, who is the oldest of them most certainly will,” answered Yrsa. ”Perchance one of the younger ones will speak later. Not now, though. They do not trust easily, which is understandable, considering how they have been treated; and for them, we are all simply Lakemen, the same lot as their master.”

“But the oldest is willing?” clarified Solveig Baker.

Yrsa nodded again. “Aye. He is no child anymore, with his nearly twenty summers, and wants justice for himself and his peers.”

“Very well,” said Master Kolbeinn. “Call him in.”

The appearance of the youngling surprised everyone. While admittedly almost painfully thin, there was sinewy strength in his slender limbs; his face smooth yet mature beyond his years, his eyes dark and grave. For someone still recovering from the lung fewer, he seemed very self-confident and alert.

“Are you the young man called Razar whom Mistress Yrsa’s men rescued from the old town?” asked Master Kolbeinn.

“I am,” answered the youngling in a somewhat weak voice, caused mayhap by his recent illness. “Although my full name is Razanur. But our Khimmer masters did not like it when slaves had such long and fancy names.”

That little detail reminded Drizzt of something he had hard with half an ear not so long ago, but for the life of his, he could not remember what it had been and when.

“How did you come to the old town?” continued Master Kolbeinn.

“My Khimmer master sold me to this man eight summers ago,” said Razanur, pointing at Master Turcaill.

“Eight _years_!” someone in the audience murmured in shock. Master Kolbeinn ignored the comment born of honest dread. He could not get distracted during an investigation.

“What were your chores?” he asked.

“We had to dive under the ruins… under the Lake and collect the gilded scales and gemstones from the carcass of the Dragon,” answered Razanur. “A manservant of our master lived almost constantly with us, to watch us and feed us… though _that_ was barely enough to survive.”

“Were you the oldest, then?” asked Thorgils Miller.

“I am now,” said Razanur. “Eight summers ago, when I was brought here, I used to be the youngest. The others told me that there had been more before I came. Many more.”

Old Mistress Arnthrud raised a hand to interrupt him. “What happened to the others?”

“They are dead; every single one of them,” replied the youngling. “The ‘lads’ of Master Turcaill did not live long. We had to dive twenty, forty times a day… even more as we grew older. In the last year, I had to go down every hour, from sunrise to sunset. ‘Tis hard on the lungs; sooner or later, we all developed the lung fever.”

“But you can no longer work when burning up with fever,” said the barber-surgeon, who had ample experience with illnesses.

“Nay, we could not,” agreed Razanur. “Those who were no longer of use were given to the water goblins. Dead, if they were lucky. Still alive if they were not.”

The audience shivered. They were used to the many dangers of the Wilderland, but being eaten alive… that was too much, even for the hardy Lakemen. Such things only happened in spider-infested Mirkwood, not on their own Lake.

“Who gave them to the water goblins?” asked Master Shaering, the shoemaker.

“’Twas Prostr, the master’s manservant,” said Razanur. “Master Turcaill came over every couple of days to see how we were doing. He decided who was still useful and who had to go. The ones no longer useful were bound on their ankles and wrists and thrown into the Lake. Soon thereafter, new ‘lads’ were brought to take their place.”

“Do you know where they came from?” asked the head judge.

Razanur shrugged. “Most of them were Mordvin boys, born to slavery like myself, bought from their Khimmer masters. I can remember one or two who came from this very town, though. Orphans, who had been given into the master’s care.”

“What?!” It did not happen every day that Master Kolbeinn would lose his calm, but now his face glowed in such a deep red that one had to fear he might get a brainstorm. “Can you tell me their names?”

Razanur thought about it for a moment. “I am not certain, but it seems to me that one of them was called Jefan. He had a sister he always talked about; an older sister, by the name of…”

“…Gritt,” whispered Master Kolbeinn. “By Godvik, and I sent them to Trucaill’s house myself, in foster care! He told us the children have died from the dry fever.”

“They never came to our house!” protested Mistress Eydís. “We never had any fosterlings!” She turned to her stone-faced husband, her voice rising in pitch steadily. “You foul beast! Those were the children of poor Tyra, and they were barely ten summers when she died! What have you done to them?”

The former spymaster gave no answer; he turned a cold shoulder to his wife and remained in stony silence.

“The boy came to us, but he was not used to such hard work,” said Razanur quietly. “He died after a few moons, for he was too weak. The girl… she was kept in a different part of the old town, far from our abode. In a place where _Uncle_ Prostr always took his… his playthings. We never saw her again, not after her arrival. I know not how long she lasted; we were not allowed to move around town freely, and she was kept far enough so that we would not hear any cries.”

“You called that… that beast _Uncle_?” asked Solveig Baker in shock.

“That was how he wished to be called,” said the youth. “If we did not call him thusly, we got flogged… and not lightly. So we got used to call him _Uncle_.”

“My word, but that is awful…” Solveig looked as if she could get sick any moment.

“The misdeeds of the servant Prostr will be discussed in a different trial,” interrupted Master Kolbeinn. “Right now, we are about to examine the evil deeds of Turcaill in full depths. Can you tell me whether he knew about his manservant’s… appetites?”

Razanur nodded. “I am certain he did. He was there when Prostr took the girl Gritt to a different part of the town.”

“I feared it would be so,” the head judge sighed. “Tell us, how were you rescued from this foul slavery?”

Razanur told them the same story they had heard from Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter earlier… in considerably less detail, but that surprised no-one. He had been delirious most of the time, after all.

“Mistress Yrsa offered to take us in as family,” he finished, his eyes shining. “Most of us gladly accepted – they have no-where to go.”

“What about yourself?” asked the head judge. The youth shrugged.

“I would love to stay here with you good people. I understand that you are not like our former master; most of you are not, at least. But I must find out what has become of my oldest brother, and for that, I have to go back to Rhûn.”

“But you might get enslaved again when you return,” warned him Master Otir. The youth nodded.

“I know that. But my brother was like a father to me. He raised and protected us all, after the death of our parents: three younger brothers and a sister. I was the youngest, thus I stayed with him for the longest time, even after all the others had been sold, and I owe him to find him… or, at the very least, to try.”

“You may very well die trying,” said Master Otir.

“So be it,” answered Razanur stoically. “He is the only one I still remember; the only one I _might_ still find.”

The judges nodded in understanding. Not having any other questions, they were just about to release him, when Bannâtha came slowly forward.

“Forgive me, Master Judge, and all you good people, but may I ask this young man a few questions?”

The head judge seemed surprised, but after a moment, he nodded… though a bit reluctantly. Bannâtha turned to the youngling.

“Can you still remember what the name of your Khimmer master was?” he asked. The youth nodded.

“Aye; how could I ever forget it? He was called Revyak – one of the younger jarls at that time, but already a particularly foul one.”

“And the name of your oldest brother?”

Razanur looked at the unknown man in suspicion… looked at him fort he first time… then his eyes widened in shocked disbelief.

“Ban?” he whispered. “Is that truly you?”

Bannâtha nodded. “’Tis truly me, little brother… ‘Tis a miracle I have long given up hope for. That we should meet as free men, under foreign stars…who would have ever thought?”

They embraced before the eyes of all, holding each other tightly, and all Lakemen plus one Dark Elf stared at them in wonder. For two estranged brothers to be reunited after so many years, in the aftermath of a bloody, terrible war, in a foreign country – that was more than anyone could hope for.

There was no need for young Razanur to return to Rhûn. Nor would he accept Mistress Yrsa’s offer, most likely. For Bannâtha had been taken in by the people of Dale, given work in the King’s own house, and a small cottage to live in, as the former inhabitants had fallen in the siege… could there be any doubt that Razanur would go with him?

For the first time in their lives, they were free men, who could choose their own fate. And _that_ gave Drizzt hope that he, too, might find his right place in Middle-earth, now that the war was over.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The laws and justice as customary for Esgaroth might seem harsh; however, in medieval times, much worse methods than here described were used. And while Middle-earth is not a medieval place in the historic sense of the word, I imagine that – at least in the Wilderland – similar attitudes towards crime and punishment were in use.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 25**

The trial went on all afternoon; ‘til nightfall, in fact. Master Kolbeinn ordered in the spymaster’s entire household, the boatmen of his ships and everyone who might know anything about Turcaill’s business activities. Servants, middlemen, trade partners from within the town and without were called before the judges and thoroughly questioned about everything that stood in the spymaster’s business books – and even more thoroughly about things that did _not_ stand there.

Drizzt, who stayed for the entire length of the trial - the working of which fascinated him - was surprised how far the connections of Master Turcaill reached. Not only deep into the supposedly hostile territory of Rhűn – after all, the merchants of Birka did trade with the Easterlings, too – but also into the far South, ‘til the Bay of Belfalas and even to the dubious pirate city-state of Umbar.

Apparently, the spymaster had also done business with the _Hanse of Lebennin_ – a bound of merchant towns in the South of Gondor, known for their aggressive expansion policy – for many years, distributing the treasure of the Dragon, which his lads had brought up from beneath the Lake, with the help of _Hanse_ merchants. That fact was noted with particular displeasure, as it meant that the _Hanse_ had practically established a foothold in Esgaroth without the _Guild Merchant_ ’s knowledge. And once the _Hanse_ had its foot in the door, it was known to be near impossible to keep the rest of them out.

“Dwarven merchants say there is a new King in Gondor now,” said Master Otir thoughtfully. “That the two realms of the Sea-Kings of old are now reunited, and there would be the same law in Arnor and Gondor again. Mayhap if we sent a letter to this new King with an official complaint about _Hanse_ activities…”

The Master of Esgaroth shook his head. “Gondor has not even begun to recover from the war,” he reminded the others. “A great deal of rebuilding will be needed, and that will cost the Crown dearly. Their new King would need the coin of the _Hanse_ – he cannot afford to turn them against himself. We shall be on our own in this matter.”

“What can we do then?” asked his brother, the head judge.

Master Ketill shrugged. “There are always the taxes. If we can come to a tax agreement with the merchants of Dale, we should be able to protect our interests successfully in Rhovanion.”

“I shall see to that,” promised Master Otir. “I have good connections in Dale.”

“That is a relief, truly,” said the Master of Esgaroth. “We do not wish for the _Hanse_ to invade our territory. Now let us bring this trial to an end, so that we can deal with the servant Prostr tomorrow. I wish to be done with this unfortunate affair as soon as possible.”

The head judge agreed and called for the votes. Once again, the bailiff carried the small voting basket along the row of the judges. Once again, the judges placed their voting stones in the basket.

Once again, all stones were black.

Master Kolbeinn knocked on the table before him, and the spectators rose from their seats to hear the final judgement.

“People of Esgaroth,” began the head judge, “you have seen the evidence. This court has found Trucaill Allunsson, formerly spymaster of Esgaroth and former member of the _Guild Merchant_ , guilty of treason, of practicing slavery, of grand theft and of shady business, the latter of which seriously harmed the interests of the entire _Guild_. Are there any among the free people of the town who disagree?”

There were none. The Magistrate instructed the scribes to note this fact in their documents. Then he continued.

“According to the law, the only punishment for treason can be death. The punishment for practicing slavery would be the loss of one’s freedom; to work in the harbour as a convict for as many years as he had committed the crime. The punishment for doing business that goes against the interest of the people as a whole would be the loss of one’s belongings, to the last piece of clothing, and to be banned from the town.”

He paused again, and the spectators nodded in agreement. The laws of the Lakemen were ancient and had always served them well; long before they had been put down on parchment.

“However,” continued Master Kolbeinn, “we must not punish the innocent together with the guilty. It has been proven that Eydís Ketillsdaughter, lawful wife of Turcaill Allunsson, knew naught of the misdeeds of her husband. Neither did two of their grown children, Arneidh and Thorodd. Therefore I suggest that we spare those who have done nothing wrong. Only Sydne Turcaillsdaughter, who was privy to her father’s despicable actions, should share his punishment. Do the free people of the town agree?”

There was quite an amount of murmured discussion among the spectators, but in the end, no-one objected. The Lakemen were a law-abiding people who wanted justice, not vengeance.

“Very good,” said Master Kolbeinn. “This is what we shall do. The lawmen of the _Guild_ will examine Turcaill’s wealth thoroughly. His wife and the two of his children who have been found innocent in his awful deeds may keep the house and all that which had come from his _lawful_ business. The rest of his wealth will be confiscated and used for the reparations that will be needed due to the war he has brought upon us. While it is true that the war has mostly spared us, there still are widows and orphans; and losses that must be repaid. Also, we ought to send Dale some help with their rebuilding; for without their bravery our losses would have been a lot more grievous.”

Again, the gathering gave its consent.

“As for Turcaill Allunsson,” continued the Magistrate, “clearly treason is the heaviest charge against him, albeit slavery is mayhap the most despicable of all his deeds. Therefore, his life is forfeit. Yet to do his other crimes proper justice, I say he ought to share the fate of those poor lads who had laboured for him among the ruins of the old town and were paid with a horrible dead for their efforts. He should be bound with iron on arms and legs and given to the water goblins.”

Drizzt was fairly shocked by this merciless suggestion – which, by the way, seemed to meet with complete agreement from the side of the gathering. Lawful people the Lakemen might be, but their understanding of the law appeared to be a harsh one, based on the old principle of ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. But again, life in the Wilderland was most likely harsh in itself. People could only count on each other; and those who had lost the trust of their fellow countrymen were no longer tolerated in their midst.

The former spymaster presumably knew this all too well, for he did not protest, nor did he try to appeal for mercy. The only change on this stony face was that the blood seemed gone from it completely – he was pale like a ghost.

“What about he girl Sydne?” Old Mistress Arnthrud asked. “She is like a poisonous snake – we ought to remove her from the town ere she manages to stir up new trouble.”

“Aye, but where should we send her?” asked the Magistrate. “Even if she would be welcome in any other settlement nearby, she would only cause trouble and harm wherever she settles down.”

“Then let us send her to Rhûn,” said Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter. “Khimmer chieftains consider having a wife from a different country as a way of forging an alliance. Nykvest Oddvarrsson from the _Tribe of the Sea Dog_ would not mind having a co-wife from Esgaroth. He is young, virile and ambitious; just about to wed a daughter of Ragnar the Smith himself. Such ties would be useful for our _Guild_.”

“True,” said Master Kolbeinn. “But would that not mean the same as selling her to slavery?”

“Nay, it would not,” answered Yrsa. “Slaves can be sold again by their lords, according to the custom of the Easterlings; wives cannot. She might not have the rights of a lawful wife, but if she can gain her lord’s favour, she can have a good life there. Nykvest Oddvarrsson is just about to raise a great hall in Hjarderskall, at the Sea of Rhûn; a hall that would make people star in open-mouthed awe, as he says. The _Tribe of the Sea Dog_ is quite a refined one as Easterlings go. Sydne shall lack nothing there; except the chance to scheme and cause any harm. Her Khimmer master would see to it that she learned her proper place.”

There was dark amusement among he spectators. For a spoiled girl like Sydne, who loved fine clothes and jewellery and gold and gemstones at least as much as her mother, living in a barbarian town would be a harsh punishment indeed. But even harsher would she find becoming the bed-warmer of a barbarian – she who had enjoyed scheming and taking part in her father’s power games so much. Everyone seemed to agree, though, that she had more than deserved it. Besides, she would have to be banned from the town anyway. As the co-wife of a Khimmer jarl she could at least undo some of the wrongs of her father.

“The suggestion does have its merits,” declared Master Kolbeinn. “But how shall we contact the Easterlings and make our offer? Right now, it would be dangerous for a messenger wearing the colours of Esgaroth to enter Rhûn in the search for any Khimmer jarl.”

“There is no need for that,” replied Yrsa. “Nykvest Oddvarrsson has ordered six wall hangings for that new hall of his from me. He will send messengers from time to time to see how the work is going – those messengers can bring official letters back to their lord. And he will come to pick up the finished hangings in person, bringing the second half of my due payment with him. He can take Sydne home with him when he arrives in Birka in two years’ time.”

“Two _years_?” repeated the Magistrate in surprise. “What are we supposed to do with her in the meantime? She cannot stay in town. We cannot keep her in the gaol for years, yet she must be watched; she is not trustworthy.”

“She can stay in my father’s house in Birka,” offered Yrsa. “My widowed aunt - the one who runs his household - and my two cousins would see that she learns something useful. That she works for her keeping like everyone else and has no time to stir up trouble. Twould be a simple life, much simpler than she was used in her father’s house; ‘twould prepare her for a life in Rhûn properly.”

The judges discussed the idea for a while, but in the end they decided it was the best possible way to solve the problem. Thus Sydne was released into the custody of Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter ‘til her _karve_ would be repaired in the shipyard of Onundr Otirsson and she could take her ward to Birka, to her father’s house. With that, the court was adjourned ‘til the next afternoon, as people would need to go after their daily work in the morning.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Are you truly giving the spymaster to the water goblins?” asked Drizzt Master Otir. They were sitting on the steps that led to the water before the Master Bowman’s house, the sky clear and full of stars above them, the town slowly quieting for the night.

The big, yellow-haired Lakeman nodded. “We take treason very seriously, Master Elf. We trusted that man; he sat in our Council, decided with us about the fate of our town… and then he sold us to our enemies. His life is forfeit.”

“I understand that,” said Drizzt. “But having him eaten by those… _things_ – is that not unnecessarily cruel?”

“Is it any more cruel than what Turcaill and Prostr had done to those poor, helpless boys?” asked Master Otir grimly. “Our law demands that any punishment we mete out should match the crime, so that justice would be served. Are you telling me that Master Kolbeinn’s judgement was _not_ fitting?”

“I cannot say so, and you know that,” said Drizzt. “However, I thought you would be more… merciful in your judgements.”

The Lakeman shook his massive head. “Mayhap that new King in Gondor, protected by guards and surrounded by armies can afford to be merciful. Mayhap the Wood-Elves, hidden by their woods and their magic can do so, too. Or the Dwarves, in their impenetrable underground caves… or the Men of Dale behind their stone walls can afford that luxury. Not us, though. We need the full force of the law to keep up order in Esgaroth – and, as you can see, not even the fear of the harshness of law can always keep people from doing horrible things.”

“Will the servant Prostr share his master’s fate?” asked Drizzt after a though-filled pause.

Master Otir shrugged. “That I cannot tell you – not yet. ‘Tis up to the judges, and I am only one of them. But if you ask me, even being eaten alive is a fate too good for him. What he has done is vile; unbelievable that it would have happened before our very eyes!”

“Men are known to have done horrible things from the dawn of time,” pointed out Drizzt.

“Not in Esgaroth, they have not,” replied Master Otir grimly. “Nor have we ever heard of such things happening in Laketown of old. We have always been a good, decent people, Master Elf – such beasts must be put down like rabid dogs to cleanse the town again.”

“I suppose you will get your wish tomorrow, “said Drizzt thoughtfully. “For my part, I cannot wait for this to be over. There have been too many deaths already.”

“We were at war,” replied the Master Bowman, “and where is war, there are casualties.

“Perhaps so,” allowed Drizzt. “Yet now that the war has ended – and ended well for us, I would say – I wish the killings would stop, too. Even those done for a justifiable reason.”

“What are you planning for once the trial is over?” asked Master Otir. “Do you wish to return to Dale?”

Drizzt shook his head. “Nay; the Men of Dale are good people and would gladly accept me in their midst, but… let us face it, I am not a Man. I might be mortal, but I am still and Elf and belong with my own kind… or the closest thing to it that can be found in Middle-earth. I have found friends in King Thranduil’s court, and I intend to return there.”

“You could always stay here, with us, you know,” offered Master Otir.

Drizzt nodded. “I know, and I am grateful; I truly am. But I miss the company of my own kind – I had lived in exile for so long before coming here, I did not even know what I was missing anymore – I wish to use the chance to be with them again.”

“I can understand that,” said the Lakeman. “But do not forget us entirely. I enjoyed greatly to fight on your side and would gladly do so again.”

“There will always be new evils that need to be fought,” answered Drizzt. “If you are in such need, call me and I shall come.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning, the lawmen of the _Guild Merchant_ and several members of the Town Guard all but turned Master Turcaill’s house upside down. Every single item found there – and in the hidden storage rooms _under_ the house – was registered in long lists, so that their value could be estimated later and compared with the former spymaster’s legal income. Everything valued beyond that would be confiscated in the end, as the judgement had ordered.

Mistress Eydís and her two older children had found refuge in her father’s house for the time of the interrogation. Young Thorodd, hurriedly accepted as the new owner of his father’s lawful business, was appointed a man of law as guide to help him separate the legal activities from the unlawful ones. He accepted this in a defeated manner – for what else could he have done?

Arneidh Turcaillsdaughter was frightened out of her mind. The sudden turn of her life for the worse confused her to no end, and she just sat alone in a corner, red-eyed and puffy-cheeked from all the crying she had done in the previous night. All attempts to make her rest or eat a bit proved fruitless.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she complained bitterly. “I have never learned a craft of my own to feed myself; Father always said no daughter of his needed to get dirt under her fingernails. I was supposed to find a husband, eventually, but who would have me now, the daughter of a traitor? Certainly Gudhleif would not want such shame to besmirch his good name… even though we _could_ court properly, now that Father no longer stands in our way.”

“I believe you should give Gudhleif Thorleifsson the benefit of the doubt,” said her aunt Lioba, the wife of Bekan Kolbeinnsson. “He is a good, decent man; he would never blame you for your father’s misdeeds… even less so as the court has found you innocent.”

But Arneidh just shook her head and began to weep again. “He might not, but surely his family would. The Harbour Master is highly respected in town… he cannot afford to be connected to someone like me.”

Unfortunately, there was a grain of truth in that. A good name was more worth in the eyes of the Lakemen than all of the Dragon’s treasures counted together. Those who lost it had very little chance to earn it back – even if it had not been their fault. With his despicable deeds, the former spymaster had ruined the life of his entire family – even those in it who had no inkling about his actions.

Young Thorodd was a man. With much hard work and a good pinch of luck, he might _eventually_ manage to come out from under his father’s shadow and earn a name for himself. But what could a girl like Arneidh do? All her life she had been held back by her father, to make room for her sister, the apple of their father’s eyes. And now she was to suffer for the man’s crimes, too. ‘Twas deeply unjust, but there was very little anyone could have done for her.

“Perchance you could go to Dale,” said Lioba. “They have lost so many; they would welcome help with the sick and the wounded. Or someone who would take care of the orphans. You are not half bad as a seamstress… or as a webestre… or even as a cook. You might find a good life there, unburdened by your father’s name.”

But the thought of leaving Esgaroth, the Lake on which she had grown up, everything (and everyone) she knew, frightened Arneidh even more than the prospect of living the life of an outcast among her own people. Lioba could hardly blame her for that; the girl had never been beyond the town boundaries, save for one or two short visits to the Dale Fairs. How could one expect her to begin a new life in a foreign town, all on her own?

The lawman’s wife decided to pay the Harbour Master a visit. She knew that Gudhleif had come to like Arneidh very much. Perhaps the family would prove more open-minded than any of them would give them credit for.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the appointed time, which was an hour after the noon bell, the court and the spectators gathered in the _Town Hall_ again to witness the trial of the servant Prostr. Unlike the one of his master on the day before, though, it did not take long. Less so as part of his misdeeds had already been revealed earlier.

Once again, Drizzt was questioned about Prostr’s role in the planned poisoning of the blacksmith’s thrall, and he repeated what little he had learned and heard while watching the spymaster at Master Ketill’s request. The more important testimony, however, was that of Razanur and those of two other boys who felt the strength in their hearts to appear before the court. They described the court in shocking detail what the servant had done to them and to the other boys, especially to the youngest ones who seemed to be his preferred targets. At one point Solveig Baker had to leave the hall as she had become ill from what they had to listen to.

Prostr, just like his master, refused to say anything. He just stood before the court, in heavy chains and with a mulish expression upon his sallow face. He was not one of the Lakemen – must have come from the Woodmen, as he was a head shorter than the average people of Esgaroth, although of wiry strength, with dun-coloured hair and beard, and a dishevelled look about him, despite his clothes of good though simple cloth. He seemed to have had his master’s favour; Turcaill’s other servants, at least those who did not live in his house, were considerably poorer clad.

It was revealed, to the surprise of everyone – including Mistress Eydís – that Prostr had been born to thralldom. His father, a simple woodworker, had never been able to re-pay his debts to Master Turcaill’s ancestor, the former Master of Laketown. As most of Laketown’s legal documents had been destroyed when the Dragon had set the town in fire, there was no proof for this; but some of the oldest people still remembered this questionable practice with great disdain.

“The fate of this wretched creature clearly shows why we must not force thralldom upon the sons and daughters of a man in debt,” said Master Carpenter Seamund. “Having taken one’s freedom without one’s own guilt only leads to hatred; and hatred, as we could see, poisons the heart and turns a man into a monster.”

“Which is the very reason why we have condemned the practice as soon as Esgaroth was rebuilt,” reminded him Master Ketill.

“Nonetheless,” said the Magistrate, “one’s own misfortune is no excuse for deeds as horrible as the servant Prostr has committed. I say, he should share the fate of his master.”

“I concur,” said the Master Carpenter. “Let us collect the votes.”

As on the previous day, the bailiff collected the voting stones from the judges. As on the previous day, they were all black.

“Then it is decided,” said the Magistrate as the bailiff presented him the voting basket. “This court has found the servant Prostr guilty of treason, theft and the corrupting of helpless children. For that, he will be given to his friends, the water goblins, at dawn, together with his master. Take him back to the gaol and watch him closely.”

The sullen man was dragged out of the Great Hall, and the court turned its attention to Master Turcaill’s boatmen, those who were accused of taking part of his shady business actions. Now that they no longer had to fear the wrath of their master, they finally dared to speak about the methods with which Turcaill had forced them to do as he had ordered. There had been everything from holding back their due payment to threatening their families; from having the disobedient ones cruelly flogged to having them bound to the mast without food and water for days. ‘Twas a long and ugly list. It seemed that some of them were thralls as well, even though there were no legal documents found in the Town Archives that would prove Turcaill’s hold on them.

“As we have no proof of them being indebted to the former spymaster, we can consider them free,” decided Master Kolbeinn. “However, we cannot speak them free of all guilt. They _had_ part in the unlawful actions of Master Turcaill, albeit perchance not voluntarily, causing the town great financial harm.”

“They can repay their debt towards the town by serving on a _knarr_ that belongs directly to the _Guild Merchant_ ,” suggested Master Otir. “We are planning to confiscate one of Turcaill’s _knarr_ s anyway; we can take over the boatmen as well. Let them serve the _Guild_ for a time that will repay for the harm their actions had caused, and then as free boatmen if that is their wish. That ought to be enough. They have suffered enough already.”

The other judges found the suggestion a fitting one, and thus it was accepted. The boatmen nearly wept in relief. After all those years in Turcaill’s iron grip, they could finally hope for a life in freedom and honest work again. That was all they had ever wanted.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When all this was properly documented and signed by the judges, the Magistrate declared the trial for closed.

“Stay for a moment, Master Elf,” he then said to Drizzt, ere the witnesses would be released. “I would have a word with you if I may.”

Drizzt was a little surprised but saw no reason to refuse the request. The Magistrate led him to a small office behind the Great Hall; usually, this was where the scribes copied confidential documents for the Town Council.

“We need your help, Master Elf,” he said. “At dawn, Turcaill and Prostr will be given to the water goblins. Nay, worry not,” he added hurriedly, seeing the Drow’s darkening expression. “Our people will do that. ‘Twas our judgement and we shall execute it.”

“What can _I_ do then?” asked Drizzt with a frown.

“We need someone who could capture one of the goblins long enough to speak with it,” explained the Magistrate. “We need to send the others a message that they cannot ignore.”

“What kind of message?” asked Drizzt.

“That they ought to keep out of our town in the future,” said Master Kolbeinn grimly. “That there will be no more secret meetings with them, no more… agreements. That they would be shot by sight if they showed themselves in the town. Either in this one or among the ruins of Laketown.”

“That would be the prudent action,” nodded the Drow in agreement. “I still cannot understand, though, why do you need _me_ for this.”

The Magistrate shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Our archers are good enough to kill them. They are not _fast_ enough to catch one _alive_. We have no use of a dead messenger.”

“You wish to spare them?” wondered Drizzt. “Why would you wish to do so?”

“We find no delight in killing any creature, as long as they do us no harm,” answered the Magistrate. “I know the water goblins are said to steal babies from the Woodmen, but so far they have done _us_ no wrong… not ere Turcaill would ally himself with them. If they are willing to go back to their deep underwater caves and not bother us any longer, we shall not bother them, either.”

“What if they are _not_ willing, though?” asked Drizzt.

“Then we shall hunt them and slay them ‘til there is not a single one of them left,” replied Master Kolbeinn darkly. “’Tis up to them.”

“Very well,” said Drizzt after some consideration. “I shall capture one for you – but you will have to do the rest.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Drizzt had Jón Otirsson take him to the ruins of Laketown by a small boat under the veil of the night. He found it better to be already there, waiting for the water goblins, ere the Lakemen would throw their two convicts into the water. He did not wish to have to look for a creature to capture in the bloodied water, in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Growing up in the Underdark made him accustomed to all sorts of garish scenes, but that did not mean he would want to watch them, unless there was no way to avoid it,

Besides, it seemed easier to capture a goblin scout when it was searching the ruins for something – or some _one_ – to eat than catch one when a dozen or so of them were fighting for food. More so if the food fought back.

The youngest of Master Otir took his leave and Drizzt laid in the wait in the same house where the boys had been kept – until Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter’s men freed them. The creatures had been used to find helpless prey in that place, thus it was to expect that they would look there first. The Drow made himself comfortable on his cloak and focused, allowing the Hunter to emerge. He rarely did so since arriving in Middle-earth, but these creatures were predators. He needed his sharpest instincts to overwhelm them.

Listening to the sounds of the night, after having spent days in a busy, noisy, crowded city was a true blessing. For the first time since he had slain the Nazgûl Lord, he felt like himself again. The sloshing of the waves, the calls of the night birds… it all reminded him of the short, most content time of his life: the time he had spent in the house of Montolio, the blind Ranger.

He could barely wait to return to the quiet woods again. Mirkwood might not be his true home, but among the Wood-Elves, he would find a new one, just as he had found friends among them. Of that, he was certain.

The creatures appeared so quietly that even his ears could not hear their approach. Without his night vision, they might have caught him unaware. But there was naught that could have escaped the night eyes of a Drow lying in the wait, and so he spotted them as soon as they surfaced.

He watched with interest as the small, dark shapes emerged from the water, climbing onto the wooden platform upon which the house had been built. They were about half his size, completely naked, and clearly adapted to a life under water. Their spidery arms and legs ended in large, clawed and webbed hands and feet, designed to drive them forward in the water quickly. While they seemed to breathe through their flat noses and open mouths, Drizzt could also see the gills opening and closing on the side of their long necks. Their torsoes were short and barrel-shaped, probably stockpiling some excess fat under their smooth, glistening dark skin, for times when food would be scarce.

Their heads were completely hairless, too, with no visible ears and huge, bulbous eyes that could see in the faintest of light and gleamed oddly. Drizzt was certain their night vision would be almost as good as his – most likely even better than that of the Wood-Elves, as they were clearly nocturnal beings.

Drizzt eyed them carefully. They were small, but size could be misleading. The creatures – there were four of them – were holding short, barbed spears, the points of which were split like those of fish-spears, and glistening with some sort of grease. The Drow saw that as a warning. He had heard Turcaill and Prostr discussing the poison of the water goblins, for which there was no known medicine. He had to avoid being stabbed – or even scratched – by those spears, at any costs. Drow Elves were immune against a number of poisons, but he could not truly hope this particular one would be among them.

He considered his choices, which were meagre at best. Had he planned to slay the creatures, he could have done _that_ easily enough. But capturing one of them _alive, without_ slaughtering the others – which would _not_ make them very perceptive for the Lakemen’s ultimatum – presented a tricky problem.

He chose the one on the left; the one closest to him. It was smaller than the rest and seemed just a little clumsy, dragging one of its feet… perhaps as the result of some recent injury. _That might just do the trick_ , Drizzt decided. He needed one that would be slower than the others for his plan to work.

The Drow grabbed one of the stones he had laid out for the likely case that he would need a distraction, took a big swing and threw it into the water, as far as he could. Alarmed, the goblins spun around and jumped head-first into the lake to see what it might have been… all but the one on the left. That one, slowed down by its injury, could not escape the lightning-fast reflexes of the Drow.

Drizzt grabbed the spear, tore it from the hands of the surprised creature and rammed the blunt end of the weapon into its midsection. The goblin fell like a stone, its breath knocked off so abruptly it could not even moan. Using the advantage, Drizzt, whirled around the spear and brought down the blunt end on the goblin’s skull, trying to find a middle way between rendering it unconscious and slaying it on the spot. He needed it quiet, and that for some time. Then he heaved it over his shoulder and climbed with it onto the still stable part of the roof, as quickly and quietly as he could. He knew the others would be back in no time and discover its absence.

And indeed, barely had he his captive bound and gagged, he could hear sloshing and paddling sounds from below. The creatures climbed onto the wooden platform again, sniffling and searching. Drizzt hoped they could not follow the scent to the roof; part of the reason why he had tried not to wound the goblin was as the others could not have missed the scent of blood, less of that of their own kind. As they all reeked of fish, muddy water and carrion, though, the Drow doubted that their personal odour would be all that different from each other.

They did not give up easily, however. Drizzt could hear them talking in a harsh, guttural language that he had not heard before but assumed it would be related to the Black Speech of the Orcs. Their voices were low, almost whispering, but the water carried them so well as if they were sitting next to him on the roof. They must have scented him, for they searched every inch in the room he had been before. There could be little doubt that they would figure out eventually where he had fled, and then he might not have any other choice than to slay them all.

Fortunately, they heard something – or some _one_ – coming upon the water, which distracted them from their relentless search. Now Drizzt could hear it too. It was the sound of oars touching the water. A _faering_ came from the direction of Esgaroth, rowed by four of the Town Guards, by the look of their tabards. In the middle of the boat, two motionless figures sat; presumably another two Men, their arms bound to their backs.

Drizzt assumed that they were the former spymaster and his perverted manservant. The Town Guards had been sent to give them to the Lake – and to their former allies, the water goblins. Daybreak could not be far, then.

The Drow glanced at the sky, and indeed, the darkness had already faded a little. He glanced down at the goblins again and saw that they were tense and alert, their limbs trembling – but they were waiting still. They wanted to see what the Lakemen were doing on the water at such an unusual time.

The Guards did not make them wait for too long. One of them announced – loudly enough for it to be heard where Drizzt was sitting – that they were about to execute the town’s judgement on these traitors, for everyone to learn from their fates. Then they unceremoniously heaved the two convicts into the Lake.

In that very moment, the water goblins forgot all about their missing comrade. All they could think was their prey – food, offered them freely. One after another, they jumped into the Lake again, paddling underwater with their large hands and feet and with a speed that could have made the fish envious. A short time later Drizzt could see their bald heads coming to the surface again. They were swimming considerably slower now, obviously dragging something (or someone) with them under the water.

The Guards in the _faering_ waited ‘til the creatures could no longer be seen. Then they rowed closer to the ruined town.

“Are you still there, Master Elf?” one of them asked.

Drizzt stood up, so that they can see him standing on the roof, an even darker shape in the fading darkness. “I am here.”

“We have been sent to take you back to the town,” the Guard told him. “Have you succeeded in capturing one of these… these _things_?”

“I have,” Drizzt picked up his prisoner and climbed down from the roof. “Worry not; I have bound him tightly. Be careful, though – who knows what kind of filth may be under its claws.”

The Guards gave the creature wary looks and made sure it – and Drizzt, for that matter – had a great deal of space in the middle of the _faering_. So much space indeed that Drizzt was surprised they had still enough left to row front and aft at all.

“It looks like an oversized frog,” one of them said. “Or a toad…” he reached out and carefully poked the goblin in the belly. “Feels like one, too.”

“Aye, but with more teeth than any decent creature ought to have,” added another one, looking at the double row of pointy teeth in the thing’s maw, which hung open in a twisted grin.

“This is _not_ a decent creature,” said Drizzt darkly. “Whatever agreement the Master of the Town hopes to come to with them, they will betray him. They will betray you all.”

The lead Guard shrugged. “Then we shall have a good hunt. These things may live _in_ the water – though my guess would rather be underwater caves, filled with air – but we have lived _upon_ the water for longer than any Man can think back. If they believe they know the Lake better than we do… well, they will learn their mistake, and it will be a harsh lesson.”

“I hope for your sake that you are right,” said Drizzt, suddenly very tired, “for small though they might be, they also seem very wicked. I doubt that they would be interested in the wars and other struggles going on in this part of the world – but they would not hesitate to kill you and eat you if they catch any of you out on the water alone.”

The Guard shrugged again. “They are welcome to try,” he replied. “They will fail… unless they come against one of us in great numbers. But that is what Master Ketill is trying to prevent.”

“They may make a promise,” warned Drizzt, “but hey will not keep it. Whatever leaders or chieftains they might have, I think not they can truly keep the rest in line. They are little more than savage beasts.”

“Mayhap they are,” allowed the guard, “but we have to _try_ , at least.”

Drizzt was still not entirely persuaded that the water goblins would deserve so much consideration, but in the end, this was the Lakemen’s decision; one he did not wish to interfere with.

“Very well,” he said. “Take us back to Esgaroth, then.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events referred to it in this chapter are described in detail in my other story, “The Prisoner of Dol Guldur”. To a certain extent, almost all of my stories in Tolkien’s world are interconnected, with the exception of a few AUs. You do not really have to read “Prisoner” to understand this one; although you might actually like it. ;o)  
> The degree of Thranduil’s kinship to Celeborn is semi-canon at best. This is a family tree I have worked out for my stories and use in all of them. You are free to disagree.  
> The _Vault of the Dead_ has been established in my similarly-named story. Again, you don’t have to read it to understand this one.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 26**

Drizzt never learned how the encounter between the captured goblin and the Master of Esgaroth had turned out; and honestly, he did not truly care, either. As much as he liked the Lakemen, they were well able to protect themselves without him worrying about them. Besides, in the next morning the rafts of Mirkwood arrived, and he forgot about the goblins entirely.

For with the rafts came Silinde Ladyhawk, as proud and radiant as ever, and the first thing she did after her arrival was to seek him out – not that it would have been so hard, considering that he was the only Dark Elf in a crowd of white-skinned, straw-haired Men. But it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless, even though the means of her arrival surprised him a little.

“We have traded with the Lakemen for things that do not grow in our woods for many years,” explained Silinde, sharing her wineskin with him. “Things like butter and apples and, before all else, wine; for I have to admit that we are very fond of it, and so is our King,” she added, taking a healthy swig. She could afford it – only very strong wine made the Wood-Elves drowsy, and this was a rather mild one.

“Do all those goods come to the King’s palace on rafts?” asked Drizzt.

“In truth, they rather come up the Forest River in barrels,” she replied, handing him the wineskin again, “though they are often just tied together like big rafts and poled or rowed up the stream. Sometimes, though, they are goaded on flat boats, too.”

“Hmmm,” Drizzt had to admit that tasting Elven wine after all those days he had to drink ale or mead with the Lakemen was a blessing. “And when the barrels are emptied, you bring them back to Esgaroth the same way?”

He had made no thoughts about how Wood-Elves acquired their food, aside from the hunt and the collecting of berries and mushrooms. He realised now that he should have known they ought to have other sources. The fare in King Thranduil’s stronghold had been better than what little the darkened forest could have provided.

Silinde nodded. “There is a water-gate in the King’s caves, opening to a stream that flows under the lowest regions of the palace, and joins the Forest River some way farther to the East,” she said. “The King’s servants cast the empty barrels through the trapdoors cut in the floor above the stream, and open the water-gate, so that the barrels can float on the stream, carried by the current to a place far down the River, near the eastern edge of the forest. There the raft-Elves collect them, tie them together and float them back to Esgaroth… or to Dale, whichever the case might be.”

“ _Raft_ -Elves?” repeated Drizzt, a bit dazed by all those things he had to take in at once.

Silinde laughed. “Well, calling them raft _men_ would not be entirely accurate,” she said reasonably. “They are a clan unto themselves: families that have always dwelt alongside the River and know it better than anyone else. They have been doing this since the King has moved the realm to the North; ‘tis said, though, they had lived that way – sometimes even on house-boats – since the dawn of time.”

“You do not belong with them, though,” said Drizzt. “So why have you come with the rafts?”

“’Tis faster than running all the way,” answered Silinde with a grin. “Truth be told, I have come for _you_. Your work here is done, I heard; time for you to return home.”

“Home?” asked Drizzt gravely. “Do I truly have a home among you?”

Silinde gave him an exasperated look. “Have we given you any reason for doubt?” she asked back, clearly a little hurt.

“Nay, you have not,” replied Drizzt slowly. “But in wartime one might forge alliances that may not hold on after the war is over. I have seen it before… and I am prepared to accept it again.”

“Obviously, you never had an alliance with the Silvan folk before,” said Silinde. “We do not go back on our word and neither does our King. He might be a bit… short-tempered sometimes, yet he would never abandon a friend or ally.”

“Has King Thranduil returned from the war yet?” asked Drizzt.

Silinde shook her head. “After they had torn down the walls of Dol Guldur with the help of the Lady Galadriel, he went on to Lothlórien to stay with his kin for a while. They have not met since the end of the Second Age, I am told.”

“Lothlórien?” the name said Drizzt nothing, although it did have a melodious, almost magical sound.

“The Golden Wood, which lies between Anduin and the Misty Mountains, opposite to Southern Mirkwood, on the western side of the Great River,” explained Silinde. “Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien is a cousin to our King. He came up on the River on boats with many of his warriors to help us fight the armies of Dol Guldur, after having repelled three attacks on his own borders.”

“It still seems a little odd to me that the King would tarry with his kin, no matter how long they had not seen each other, instead of hurrying back home to see what damage the war has done to his own realm,” said Drizzt thoughtfully. “He does not strike me as a person who would waste his time celebrating victory while there is much rebuilding to do.”

“You are right; he is not,” answered Silinde. “Nor is he tarrying in Lothlórien to celebrate, although he would have reason for it – and not only because the Dark Lord has been defeated. He has… re-found something he had thought lost for an entire Age.”

“Re-found _what_?” asked Drizzt with a frown.

“His son,” replied Silinde gravely. “Remember what you have learned about the King’s older sons?”

Drizzt thought about it for a moment. “Yea; all three were slain in the battles of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men,” he said.

Silinde nodded. “That was what we all thought, yea. It seems though that not _all_ of them were slain, after all. We have found one of them: Prince Enadar, the King’s second-born… or what is left of him.”

“Found him? Where?”

“In the deepest, foulest dungeon of Dol Guldur,” Silinde’s voice was barely more than a whisper, her haunted eyes still mirroring the deep shock of those memories. “He was injured in the Last Battle and dragged away from the battle plane of Dagorlad by the Enemy’s servants. They kept him in that fetid hole, without company, without sunlight, all the time… and we never knew it. We never sought after him. So many fell in that battle… we never found the bodies… and he was kept alive all this time, too strong to fade away…”

Her voice broke. Drizzt shuddered, knowing what _that_ must have done to a Wood-Elf, destined to live under the open sky, to talk to the trees and the good beasts of the forest. The King’s son must have been exceedingly strong of spirit indeed.

“How long…?” he asked. He could not quite remember when the Last Battle was said to have taken place, but he knew it had been a long time ago.

“More than three thousand years,” answered Silinde tonelessly. “Even for one of us, that is a very long time – having spent a whole Age in darkness has taken its toll on him. Unlike your kind, we cannot bear solitude and the lack of fresh air well. He is but a shadow of himself – wasted away almost completely. He did not even remember his own _name_.”

“The King must be devastated,” murmured Drizzt. Silinde nodded.

“He is. But he is also overjoyed, for Enadar seems to remember _him_ … though little else.”

“Will his memory of happier times ever return?” asked Drizzt doubtfully.

“We can only hope,” answered Silinde. “In any case, he is terribly weak; in no shape to travel the long way home. Lothlórien is much closer, and they have good healers. I assume the King will wait for Prince Legolas’ return from Gondor ere even thinking of moving Enadar.”

“So Prince Legolas came back from the war unharmed then?” that news lightened Drizzt’ heart. It would have been a cruel fate for the Elvenking to gain one son back, just to lose the other one.

“Oh, he is still in Gondor and shall remain there ‘til his friend, the King of Men is crowned and wedded, they say,” replied Silinde. “But he fought his way through terrible battles with scarcely a scratch upon him; and he is said to have performed great deeds. Taking a winged Nazgûl off the skies with his bow is only one of them. Only in the Battle of the Hornburg, he slew some forty Orcs with his arrows and knives. _And_ he apparently walked the Path of the Dead, too,” she shook her head in amazement. “Who would have thought that the little elfling who once used to play with my son on the treetops would become our greatest warrior one day?”

“On the _treetops_?” repeated Drizzt. That sounded… dangerous, even for a Wood-Elf.

“That was a long time ago, back in the Second Age, when we still lived in Lasgalen, the tree city of King Oropher – our King’s father – in the Emyn Duir,” explained Silinde. “They were inseparable, my Rhimlath, Galion’s granddaughter Mírenin and the little Prince.”

“His brothers must have been considerably older, then,” said Drizzt. Silinde nodded.

“They were. Prince Dorothil, the eldest, was the shining hope of us all – he would have made a great King one day. Prince Enadar was quiet and withdrawn, but with an inner strength that perchance helped him to endure three thousand years of captivity. Prince Orchal, the third-born, was always merry and loved music. Princess Celebwen… she was a sad one, hit by the Sea-longing at a very young age and could no longer find peace under the trees. A shame, truly – she was a beauty rarely seen even among Elves.”

“What is this Sea-longing you are talking about?” asked Drizzt, a little confused.

Silinde sighed. “’Tis a terrible curse of the Sindar, who, after all, have descended from the Teleri, the Sea-Elves of old. Those hit by the Longing have no other choice than to sail to the West, the Undying Lands, sooner or later… or fade away in sorrow. Nandor Elves are mostly spared, and so is the Silvan folk; but our King comes from an ancient line of Sindarin Princes; from the royal clan of Elwë and Olwë themselves.”

“Of whom?” Drizzt was quickly losing count on all the unknown names.

Silinde gave him an apologetic look. “Your pardon, Drizzt Do’Urden; I forgot that you have not grown up with our legends. Well, Olwë is the King of the Sea-Elves in the Undying Lands. Elwë Singollo – called Elu Thingol in the Grey Tongue – was his brother, the King of Doriath. They had a third brother, Elmö, our King’s grandfather. Elmö’s sons, Oropher and Galadhon, found refuge in Elwë’s realm after the fall of the First City of the Quendi. Galadhon was the father of the Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien, who is espoused to the Lady Galadriel.”

Another Elf might have wondered why the King had not met his close kin for an Age or longer. As a rule, the Elves of Middle-earth seemed to keep close contacts to their clan and family. There was a slight undertone in Silinde’s voice, though, whenever she mentioned the Lady Galadriel, and thus Drizzt suspected that whoever this Lady might be, she probably was not well-loved among the woodland folk, despite the fact that she was apparently powerful enough to tear down the walls of Dol Guldur.

Of course, the Drow had not been particularly fond about their powerful Matrons either, but _that_ had been different. Female Drow were inherently evil, cruel and treated their males like dirt. It had been a mild shock for Drizzt to realise that while among Wood-Elves, too, the head of the family _was_ the eldest female, family bonds in a Silvan clan were based on mutual respect and equality. This was the first time ever that he heard an Elf speak about another Elf with… well, if not disdain, still with a great amount of suspicion.

He decided to ask Alagos about the Lady Galadriel later. He could not be entirely certain how it worked among Wood-Elves, but back home, it would have been perilous to ask a female questions about another female – especially a powerful one. It might have been a harmless thing _here_ , but he preferred to err on the side of caution.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, the arrival of the Elves had become known in the entire town, and people came out of their houses to the quays to greet them. With them came Mistress Íreth, the Elvenking’s chief healer, who had spent her time in Yrsa Brinningrsdaughter’s home, treating little Halli, the boy whose leg had been bitten off by the water goblins. She must have been truly excellent in her art, for the boy was said to be on his way to heal completely… well, as completely as it was possible for him. But since Yrsa had taken him in as her own, he could hope for a good life.

Íreth and Silinde greeted each other in the manner of very old friends – they were related by their offspring’s marriage, after all – and exchanged a little gossip and news about the battles fought near the King’s palace and at Dol Guldur, respectively. Íreth would tell a little more about Prince Enadar’s horrible state – as Silinde only knew about it from Alagos, who had been sent back to Mirkwood with the King’s instructions for Lord Maelduin, who was to rule the realm in his absence. Íreth, on the other hand, had been on the battlefield, treating the wounded, when the long-buried Prince had bee found. She just had not talked about it yet, uncertain whether the King wanted any-one to know. But as Silinde knew it already, she saw no reason why to remain quiet any longer.

“You would not recognise him,” she said to Silinde, full of sorrow. “He is more dead than alive; all shrunk skin and dry bones and enormous eyes – like a wraith, truly. When we washed off him the hundred-years-old layers of filth, we truly feared there would be nothing left, once we were done.”

“A whole Age in a fetid hole, without fresh air, without sunlight…” Silinde shuddered. “Imagine what _that_ must be like.”

“I am trying very hard _not_ to imagine it,” replied Íreth grimly. “Or else I might lose my mind. ‘Tis bad enough to live in our King’s caves, no matter how splendidly they are built – I would be glad if I _never_ had to see a cave from the inside again.”

“Perchance you shall not have to do so any more,”” said Silinde. “Now that Mordor has fallen, our woods will be cleansed again, and we can return to our old ways, living in the trees. I for my part ma looking forward to it – I never liked to be trapped under the hill.”

“Still I deem that many of our people will sail,” said Íreth thoughtfully. “Not so many of us Faithful, for certain, but a great number of the remaining _Golodh_ from Imladris and Edhellond. The days of their greatness have long gone, and they cannot find a home in the woods as we do. I pity them; I truly do.”

“Do you not wish to see the Undying Lands?” asked Drizzt. He had heard but very little about that mythical place during his short stay in the Elvenking’s halls, but it seemed to him as a true paradise. That someone would _not_ want to go there…

Íreth shook her head. “Middle-earth was meant to be our home from the very beginning, and we do not wish to leave our home, not even for the so-called wonders of the far West. The Powers that dwell there might have meant well when they summoned our people to journey to the West; to live there under their protection. In truth, though, they only cut the Eldar off their true roots. Took them from the place where they were _meant_ to be.”

“Your people did not follow the summons, then?” Drizzt was stunned. To refuse the call of the gods themselves required a great deal of courage and stubborn independence. Besides, would it not have been better to live in a place without wars and darkness?

“I am old enough to remember the times when there was no Sun and no Moon, and the light of the Two Trees did not reach these shores,” answered Íreth. “But already the oldest living things had arisen: in the Sea the great weeds, and on the Earth the shadow of dark trees. And beneath the trees small things faint and silent walked, and in the valleys of the night-clad hills there were dark creatures, old and strong. Our people awakened at the Waters of Koivie-néni at the same time that Elentári, Queen of the Heavens, kindled the stars – and starlight was the very first thing our eyes saw, and we remain the Children of the Stars forever, and feel no desire for the bright radiance of the Undying Lands.”

She paused for a moment, lost in her memories. Then she opened her eyes again, sighed and continued.

“I was there when Aldaron, Lord of the Forests, came to us, riding his huge white steed, to summon us. Many have followed – those were dark times, and the Great Enemy, to whom the Dark Lord of Mordor was but a servant, hunted us like game and dragged those he had captured to the deep pits of Utumno, his fortress in the North, to twist them into Orcs, through unspeakable tortures. Many of the Quendi were frightened and welcomed the chance to find refuge somewhere where would be no darkness and no peril.”

“But not _your_ people,” guessed Drizzt. Íreth shook her head.

“Nay, we would not leave the place of our birth. We are called the Faithful for a reason. Ilúvatar meant us to dwell _here_ , and here we shall remain ‘til the end of Arda. ‘Til the world is re-made.”

“Not all of us have the choice,” said Silinde with a sigh.

Drizzt frowned. "Why not? Can the Powers force you to sail to the West?”

“Of course not; nor would they ever make the attempt,” Silinde smiled sadly. “But those who were slain cannot return to these shores, once they are released from the Halls of Mandos. If I want to be reunited with my spouse _before_ the end of Arda, I _will_ have to sail, eventually.”

“Why can they not return?” asked Drizzt, a little baffled.

“When they are rehoused, their new bodies are taken from the flesh of the Undying Lands,” explained Silinde. “They could no longer dwell on these mortal shores. Glorfindel was the only one who ever returned – and for that, the Powers had to change his very nature, or so our King says. He is closer to the Powers themselves than to us now… ‘twas the only way to send him back, it is said; and he was _needed_.”

Drizzt decided not to ask who Glorfindel was, not in the moment. His head was buzzing with all those unknown names, and he did not think he would truly need to know every detail right away. He did have an interest, for certain, but he hoped that he would have time enough to study the ancient legends once they had returned to Mirkwood.

Which reminded him of something…

“Are we returning to the King’s halls at once or shall we wait for the rafts?” he asked. The _ellith_ exchanged questioning looks.

“I have got a boat,” said Íreth thoughtfully, “large enough for three people. We can leave any time the two of you wish – unless you _want_ to wait for the rafts.”

“I do not,” declared Silinde promptly. “’Tis slow progress – more so against the stream.”

“’Tis all the same to me,” said Drizzt. “I shall welcome the chance to return, though. As much as I have come to enjoy the company of Men, I have missed to be among Elves again.”

Íreth looked at Silinde. “Your choice then, Captain.”

“The boat it is,” decided Silinde without hesitation.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And thus in the next morn Drizzt Do’Urden took his leave from his newly found friends among the Lakemen and took the boat with the two _ellith_ to return to his own kind. Mistress Íreth turned out to be one of those Elves who had lived near the River all their lives; she could guide the small vessel with the help of a single oar against any stream that might try to drive them off their route seemingly without effort.

Perchance the songs she was singing while she did so – in a tongue too ancient for even Silinde to understand – had something to do with that.

Travelling on the Forest River was unexpectedly pleasant, despite the hot summer sun that would otherwise bother the Drow. But here the trees grew very close to the River; so close that some of them had their roots in the water, and their crowns leaned inward, providing a shadowy route near the river bank. The forest seemed to be lightening already, with the evil of Dol Guldur no longer poisoning water and soil; birdsong filled the air, dragonflies danced above the water, and here and there the russet forms of deer could be seen as they came down to the water to drink. There was a peaceful air about the whole landscape; one Drizzt had not felt for a very long time.

“The forest is changing,” he said quietly. “The gloom that used to sit heavily over the trees seems to be clearing up.”

Silinde nodded. “Soon it would no longer deserve the name Mirkwood,” she said, “and I for my part am glad I lived to see this day. Once this was known as Greenwood the Great – perchance we can give it back that old name again.”

“One day we might,” agreed Íreth, “yet not for a while yet, I fear. There are still very dark places within the forest; places where the evil of Dol Guldur has dwelt too long and the hearts of the trees are black. Cleansing the forest will take a long time – unless we get help from the Onodrim. Alas, it has been Ages since one of them would come to the North.”

“Who… or _what_ are these Onodrim?” asked Drizzt.

“The Onodrim are the oldest and tallest of all races ever born to Middle-earth,” replied Íreth. “They seem to be half-Men and half trees, are easily fourteen feet tall, and their eldest is said to have lived in Middle-earth for nine Ages of Stars and Sun. According to legends, they awoke in the great forests of Arda when Elentári rekindled the stars. They came from the thoughts of Kémi, Queen of the Earth, and were her shepherds of the trees.”

“Kémi of the many names is the Lady you mayhap know as Mielikki,” added Silinde for Drizzt’s understanding.

“Men call them Ents,” continued Íreth, “and shepherds and guardians they proved to be, for if roused to anger, the wrath of the Onodrim is terrible. They can crush steel and stone with their hands alone. Justly they are feared, even among our own people; but they are also gentle and wise. They love the trees and all the Olvar and guard them from evil.”

“Olvar is how the Lady Kémi called all those living things that cannot move,” explained Silinde, “like the trees and the shrubs and flowers and other plants. The Onodrim, however, can very well move, even though they do look like trees – or so they say. I have never seen one of them.”

“I have,” said Íreth, “back in the Second Age of the Sun, when the great forests of Eriador were burnt by the Dark Lord, and the Onodrim came to the North to find their lost spouses. For in the First Age, the Entwives became enamoured of the open lands, where they might tend to the lesser Olvar – the fruit trees, the shrubs and the flowers, the grasses and the grains – whereas the male Ents loved the trees of the forests. So they parted ways, and the Entwives came to the wide, open lands south of the Greenwood, where they were worshipped by the race of Men, who learned from them the art of tending to the fruits of the Earth.”

“Yet before the end of the Second Age, at the same time when Sauron burned the great forests, the gardens the Entwives were destroyed, too, and with the gardens went the Entwives,” added Silinde. “No tale tells about their fate; perchance they went to the South or the East. But wherever it was, it was beyond the knowledge of the Onodrim of the forests, who wandered in search of them for many long years.”

“And it was then that you met one?” asked Drizzt Mistress Íreth.

The healer nodded. “That was when I met Treebeard, the Eldest, indeed, and it was an encounter I will never forget.”

“What was he like?” pressed Drizzt, eager to learn more about such wondrous creatures.

“He looked like a tree… like a talking, walking tree,” replied Íreth. “Like oak or beach was his huge, rough-barked trunk, while his branch-like arms were smooth and his seven-fingered hands were gnarled. He seemed to have no neck at all, and his head was tall and thick as his trunk. His brown eyes were large and wise and seemed to glint with a green light. His wild grey beard was like a thatch of twigs and moss. He was made of the fibre of trees, yet he moved swiftly on unbending legs, with feet like living roots. Swaying and stretching like a long-legged wading bird… only larger, much larger. He was quite the largest creature I have ever seen, and I _have_ seen my fair share of trolls in my life.”

“And he could talk, you say…?” Drizzt was amazed, wishing a chance to see one of these tree-shepherds with his own eyes.

“At the time of their awakening, the Onodrim could not speak,” answered Íreth. “But after they had met the Elves, they learned that art from us and have loved it dearly ever since. In fact, they have learned many languages, for they enjoyed it greatly. ‘Tis said that they have even devised their own language – one that none but the Onodrim ever mastered. Their voice rolls slowly as thunder… or the timeless booming of waves on forgotten shores; no-one who has heard it once will ever forget it.”

“Alas, they have not been seen in the North for at least a whole Age,” added Silinde. “Not since the gardens of the Entwives were burnt and turned into the Brown Lands, empty and dead; although we still sing the old songs about their long search for the Entwives. If there still _are_ any of them left in Middle-earth, they ought to dwell in the great Entwood, southwest of Lothlórien.”

“Are they mortal, then, and can vanish from the earth?” asked Drizzt, saddened that he might _not_ get his chance to meet them.

Íreth shrugged. “They cannot die in the manner of Men, through age,” she said, “but they have long become a dwindling race nonetheless. They were never numerous and could be slain with steel and fire. But the worst part is that no new Entings have come after the departure of the Entwives. Also, after the burning of the vast forests of Eriador – where once many of them roamed – they had only small patches of woods where they could have lived: the Entwood itself, and the Old Forest in Eriador, which has shrunk to a tenth of its earlier size, or so I heard.”

“That is sad,” said Drizzt. “I would have loved to meet them – they would be something new to me, something the likes we had not had back in Faerûn.”

“Mayhap one day you get the chance to travel to the South and visit the Entwood,” replied Íreth. “But as they are unlikely to come to the North ever again, we shall have to work with our own moderate skills to cleanse our woods from Sauron’s evil.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They reached the Elvenking’s stronghold shortly before nightfall and found the place buzzing with excitement. Things about Prince Enadar’s rescuing had apparently become common knowledge all over the palace – the merry and light-hearted Silvan folk seemed unable to talk about anything _else_. Drizzt’ return was barely acknowledged, which was fine with the Drow. All he wanted for was some peace and quiet... although the latter was not easy to find at the moment.

“Come with me,” said Alagos, who had come to greet both him and Silinde. “My _talan_ is a little farther away from the King’s Halls; there you might rest for a while.”

“I am not tired,” protested Drizzt, which was a blatant lie, of course; but despite his weariness, he did not want to offend anyone by retreating from them.

“Not in body, mayhap, although fighting a Nazgûl leaves a bone-deep weariness that takes a long time to fade,” replied Alagos with a knowing look. “But you must be weary of spirit, too. The Lakemen are good people, but they live in a crowded town and can be a tad… noisy. Staying with them can be hard on the ears.”

“They mean well,” said Drizzt in their defence, though Alagos’ description made him laugh. It was a very accurate one.

Alagos nodded, his greenish-brown eyes twinkling. “I know. Mayhap a little too well sometimes – like when they force their mead upon you. Now come with me.”

There was an edge of order in his voice. Somehow he almost sounded like Zaknafein during weapons training. And though Drizzt was no longer conditioned to obey that tone without consideration, he found himself following the tracker nonetheless.

“How do you _do_ that?” he asked, half-laughing, half annoyed.

Alagos shot him a shrewd look over his shoulder. “The trick is to believe steadfastly that the other one will obey,” he replied, grinning. “I have spent six thousand years or more with disciplining young Elves – ‘tis a second nature to me already.”

They did not have to go very far, which made sense. Alagos was the King’s chief tracker; he needed to be within easy reach all the time. His home was built in the crown of a gnarled old oak; not just a _talan_ but a regular tree-house, a comfortable hut cleverly hidden among the higher branches. It’s roof was masterfully woven of twigs and covered with leaves, arranged so that they would lead the rainwater into a wooden trog, from where it could be harvested and used.

“Rainwater is the best for your hair,” explained the Silvan woman of undeterminable age who was collecting the dried clothes from the wooden racks standing under the tree. She seemed vaguely familiar, but Drizzt could not quite remember where he might have met her. Of course, he had met many Elves at the King’s court, most of them only fleetingly.

“My wife, Rodwen,” introduced her Alagos. “You might have seen her in the palace – she is the King’s chief bread-maker.”

“Welcome to our home, Drizzt Do’Urden,” she said. “Alagos has told me a little about you. I am delighted to finally meet you and learn more.”

“I hope I am not intruding,” began Drizzt, but she waved his concerns off.

“Nonsense. “Alas, we have more place than we can use, and it is so rare that we can entertain guests. Do climb up, you two,” she added, turning to her husband. “I shall be with you shortly.”

Drizzt and Alagos climbed the rope ladder to the tree house. It was basically a single chamber – albeit a fairly large one – divided into smaller rooms by thickly-woven blankets fastened on wooden frames. The furniture was sparse, consisting mattresses filled with dried grass, also framed in wood, canopied by heavy curtains in greens and browns and covered with kilts, as well as beautifully-crafted large chests that held all the family’s belongings. Aside from a small brazier for cold days, barely anything was made of metal. 

Drizzt had the feeling that Alagos and his wife only used the tree house to sleep. The rest of their life most likely took place either in the King’s Halls or – in Alagos’ case – somewhere out in the wilderness. It was certainly a very modest home that told little about the taste of the inhabitants.

Then something occurred to the Drow.

“Why did your wife say that you had too much place,” he asked. “The house is not _that_ large; in truth, you would have a great deal more living space if you removed the inner walls. They are just framed blankets, after all. What do you need so many separate rooms for?”

“We do not,” replied Alagos. “Not any longer. But this was what our home used to look like, back in Lasgalen, in King Oropher’s tree city, when our sons were still with us. We never had the heart to change it.”

“You never mentioned that you had sons,” said Drizzt in surprise.

“There was no need to do so; for they are dead,” answered the tracker. “Slain in the Battle upon Dagorlad, all three of them, like so many others from our people. Like the King’s own sons.”

“Not all of them, it seems,” said the Drow.

Alagos shrugged. “I wonder which is worse. Had I found any of my sons in the shape Prince Enadar is in, I know not if my heart could have borne it. At least I can remember them as they were: young, fair and valiant.”

“’Til you meet them again,” added Drizzt. But Alagos shook his head.

“Not ‘til the End of Arda, I shall not. The Faithful do not follow the summons of Mandos. Not even in death do we leave these shores, and thus we are not rehoused.”

Drizzt nodded. “Mistress Íreth mentioned something light that during our journey on the River. But what happens to you then? Do you haunt the forests like disembodied spirits?”

“Nay,” said Alagos. “There is a place where our _fëar_ , our spirits can rest when we die. ‘Tis in the far South and is called the _Vault of the Dead_. No-one knows where it is hidden; but if a dead Elf does not want to go to the Halls of Mandos, Erikwe, the Herald of the Dead guides them to the _Vault_ , where they can dwell ‘til the world is re-made.”

“And you believe that is where your sons are now?” Drizzt had a hard time to imagine that.

Alagos shrugged. “There is no other place to go for us. We are the _Mori-kwendî_ , the Dark Folk; we do not go to the West.”

“I know,” said Drizzt. “Mistress Íreth told me about that, too. I just never thought it would be true for the dead as well.”

“Dead or alive, they are still the _Faithful_ ,” replied Alagos with another shrug. “Besides, many of us have kin among the Dead that would not be welcome in the West; at least we do not believe so, although some say that we may be mistaken.”

“Why not?” Drizzt frowned. “For having refused the summons of the Powers?”

“Nay;” said Alagos darkly. ”For what they have become.”

“What _have_ they become?” Drizzt felt utterly confused.

Alagos sighed. “You _have_ been told how the Great Enemy made the first Orcs, have you not? How he captured Elves, tortured and maimed them in flesh and in spirit to make them into twisted monsters?”

Drizzt nodded wordlessly. He still could not imagine how _that_ would be possible, but there was no reason for the Wood-Elves to lie to him, therefore it _had_ to be true.

“My parents were among these Lost Ones,” continued Alagos grimly, “and so was my first wife. When the Powers made war on the Great Enemy, and the walls of his dark fortress fell, we found Orcs in the deep pits of Utumno who still had some of their Elvish traits.”

“Wait a moment!” Drizzt interrupted. “Your _first_ wife? I thought Elves of Middle-earth mated for life, and only once in eternity.”

Alagos shook his head. “That might be the case among those who have fled to the Undying Lands; we on these shores do not have that luxury. Had we not remarried after our spouses were taken, back in the sunless days, we would have died out thousands of yéni ago.”

“What happened to your first wife, then?” asked Drizzt. “Was she turned into an Orc?”

“I never learned about her fate,” Alagos sighed. “Or about that of my parents, for that matter. But I… I found a brother in the pits, a brother I never knew about.”

Drizzt shuddered. “How was that possible?”

“No-one can tell for sure,” said Alagos. “We do know, though, that the Lost Ones were forced to breed there, in their foul captivity, to produce more monsters for their dark master. However the first generation born there was not fully evil yet – they were not entirely beyond help. My wife, my parents… they were gone, but my brother I took home with me. He had been born in the pits – born as an Orc already, but I still could find the features of my mother in his hideous face. So I took him home – I was not the only one to do so. The _Faithful_ never abandon their own.”

“I cannot imagine that to have been easy,” said Drizzt quietly.

Alagos nodded. “It was not. The first few generations of Orcs, although they were us a lot more alike, had already lost their connection to the flesh of Arda and were doomed to die, just like mortal Men are. They were wretched, short-lived creatures who bitterly hated what they had become… or _how_ they had been born. Our Wise-Women tried their utmost to heal them, at least their spirit, but sometimes not even strong earth magic can mend that which had been utterly broken.”

“And yet you took them in as part of your family,” said Drizzt. “Could they adapt to a live among you at all?”

“My brother was never able to endure the light of Anor,” replied Alagos with a weary sigh, “but we walked and hunted under the starlight together for many long seasons. He learned our tongue, yet lived in a cave, outside our dwellings, hiding from all eyes. All those rescued by their kin led solitary lives, allowing only their closest kin to see them… until they died, either of old age (an age that was but the wink of an eye for us) or slain by wild beasts or some hiding dark creature that remained in the woods after the Great Enemy’s defeat.”

“Where is he now?” asked Drizzt. “Has he gone to the _Vault_ , too?”

“I assume so,” answered the tracker. “My brother lived several _yéni_ , ‘til Erikwę came for him, and he followed her gladly. I know not whether my parents, my sons, my first wife truly are in the _Vault_ , but I know that at least my brother is – and that he is now free from the hideous form that had been forced upon him. ‘Tis my hope that among the other Elven spirits, he might finally have found peace.”

They were silent for a while, Drizzt shaken by all the misfortune that had happened to Alagos’ family. His respect for the ancient Elf grew steadily. After all this, Alagos had still found the strength to lead a full life and, so it seemed, a content one. The Drow wondered if _he_ would be able to do the same, or if one needed the lifespan of an immortal to develop that kind of strength.

“’Tis a harsh fate your family has suffered,” he finally said.

Alagos shrugged again. “We are not the only ones. All old Elves could tell you a story very alike ours.”

“That makes it not easier to bear, I deem,” said Drizzt.

“You learn, given enough time, to let go of the past,” replied Alagos simply. “You cannot live any other way. Perchance this is why the Sea-longing does not hit us the way it does hit our more… refined cousins. Our roots in the earth of our birth are deep.”

“Enough deep thoughts for one evening, I shall think,” the brisk voice of Mistress Rodwen interrupted them. “’Tis time to eat and to rest; the concerns of tomorrow can wait.”

The two _ellyn_ followed her to the open platform before the house, where a low trestle table stood, already laid for a light late supper. Small silver lamps were hanging from the branches above their heads, providing them with just enough light to eat. The singing of many clear Elven voices could be heard from below and from the neighbouring trees, mixed with the calls of the night birds.

“There will be much singing and dancing tonight,” commented Mistress Rodwen, passing the basket with fresh bread to Drizzt. “I think I shall leave the young ones to it, though. But worry not,” she added, turning to Drizzt with a smile. “We shall teach you proper dancing ere the summer is over. You are an Elf, after all; ‘twould be a shame to leave you so wooden-legged.”

The prospect, frankly, quite terrified Drizzt, but the taboo of arguing with a female was too ingrained in him to protest. Alagos grinned at his very obvious mortification, but after a while came to his aid.

“That has to wait,” he said. “It seems our guest has a visit from an old friend.”

Drizzt looked curiously in the direction where Alagos was pointing, and his heart leaped with joy. Under a tree less than a few yards away lay Half-tooth, licking one large paw in a fastidious manner shared by all felines and glanced up to him expectantly.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Ash and its significance were established in my still-unfinished story “The Trials of a Woodland King". Queen Lálisin first appeared in “Little Bird".

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 27**

Drizzt spent most of his time with Alagos during the next few weeks. He did continue his studies of Elvish languages with Maelduin the Sage, albeit somewhat sporadically, as Maelduin had to act as the Elvenking’s regent in Thranduil’s absence. He started to go out on patrol with Silinde’s Nandor archers; despite the fall of Mordor, Mirkwood was still a perilous realm, infested with evil creatures that needed to be kept at bay. He even made friends with the raft-Elves, eager to learn how to use the River as a way instead of seeing it as a hindrance, and they taught him willingly.

That still left him with too much free time on his hands, though, and thus he joined Alagos on his tracking tours. They mostly tracked wolves and spiders, of which there were still too many in the forest; but sometimes they went hunting. And sometimes Alagos just led him around the woods to show him secret and sacred places.

On one of those days they came to the Great Ash.

As so often, Half-tooth had been accompanying them on this trip, but stayed behind when they reached the edge of the lighting with obvious respect. Drizzt, who had not heard about this place yet, was surprised by the good beast’s behaviour.

“What is this place?” he asked. "Why have you brought me here?”

“This is the very heart of our forest, a place most secret and sacred,” replied Alagos. “For here dwells the Great Ash, the ancient Queen of Mirkwood. She is the oldest of all trees that live in the Wilderland, for she is the last of those that came from the seeds Kémi devised in the Ages of the Lamps. She is older than even the Onodrim – have you heard about them?”

Drizzt nodded. “Captain Silinde and Mistress Íreth spoke of the tree-shepherds to me.” 

He looked at the huge, ancient tree in the middle of the small lighting. Tall and slender she was, the Queen of the Forest, her roots delving deep into the flesh of Arda, reaching towards the very centre of the bent world, washed by the living waters born between them, and some of those waters broke free between her roots in the form of a small spring. Her powerful branches reached out to the stars, the winds playing with them like with the strings of a living harp. She bound the starlit skies to the earth like a powerful anchor. She was old, very old, but one could feel that under her smooth bark the juices still ran vigorously.

“She does not look so ancient,” said Drizzt. “Rather like a young tree in its prime.”

“She might not _look_ ancient, but she _is_ ,” said Alagos. “Now that our Wise-Women are all gone, she is the only one who can still protect our woods from the infusion of evil. She holds all the forest in enchantment by the power of her ancient wisdom, even though she does not know the art of speech and is not limb-lithe like the Huorns of the great Entwood. She does _not_ need to be. ‘Tis enough for her to stand here, unmoving yet watchful, waiting for us to come to her.”

“But if she cannot talk to you, why would you come at all?” asked Drizzt, a little confused.

“Oh, she does talk to us,” answered the tracker, “just not with spoken words. We of the _Faithful_ , as well as our Silvan cousins, can open our minds for the thoughts of the trees. We do not always understand what we learn from them – not right away at least – but in due time, their thoughts become more and more familiar to us; and it takes us less effort each time we talk to them.”

“But why have you brought _me_ here?” asked Drizzt. “I am no son of the forest; I was born in the deep, dark recesses of the earth, in a different world – I must be utterly foreign for her.”

“You are,” agreed the tracker, “which is the very reason I brought you here. If you ever wish to make yourself a home among us, the King’s leave would not be enough. Only if the Great Ash accepts you as one of her own will you truly become one of us.”

“Will she? Accept me, I mean?” Drizzt felt a little doubtful about that. If the Great Ash was truly such a wise and powerful creature, she would feel that he was not part of Middle-earth and might reject him.

“That I cannot tell,” replied Alagos, “but I am certain she will tell you in a short time – if you are willing to listen.”

Drizzt nodded. “What shall I do?”

“Nothing,” said Alagos simply. “Just sit down and wait. She will speak to you in her own time. I shall leave you to it.”

To Drizzt’s relief, he did not leave him alone, though, just retreated a little further, making himself comfortable under another tree. Half-tooth trotted over to him and laid his great head trustfully onto the tracker’s knee. Alagos smiled and scratched the good beast between the tufted ears.

It became silent on the lighting; Drizzt sat down cross-legged in the grass, too, and waited… for what, he could not even guess. He certainly did not expect a slender Elf-woman to step forth from behind the Great Ash and approach him.

Tall and slender she was, her thick auburn hair put up and held together by a dark green cloth. Almond-shaped eyes, bright and greenish-brown like polished chestnuts, shone in her gentle face, and in the golden afternoon light even the freckles on her cheeks could be seen. She was fairly plain for an Elf, compared even with most other women of the Silvan folk, wearing a simple, unadorned gown in dark, forest green and over that a sleeveless brown surcoat.

“Well met, Drizzt Do’Urden from the House Do’Urden,” she said in a low, melodious voice. “I welcome you to the heart of my realm. You have done well to come here, for this is one of the most ancient places in Middle-earth – a place where earth magic is still strong.”

“Am I allowed to stay, then?” asked Drizzt in relief. She gave him a serene smile.

“You may dwell under these trees as long as you please… and yet this will never be your true home,” she answered solemnly. “Sooner or later, your heart will drive you to the South, to seek out the city of the Dark Elves… for that is where you will find true kinship. Where you will find your true place. ‘Til the day of your death… and beyond.”

“Shall I have to leave, then?” Drizzt was saddened by that thought. He had come to like the woodland folk very much.

“No-one would _tell_ you to leave,” she answered. “’Twould be your own heart that would wish to live under a folk more akin to yours; among people who are not evil yet prefer the starlit night to the harsh brightness of the Sun. The place where you can find true peace lies in the South.”

She gave him another one of those serene smiles, walked around the Great Ash – and then she vanished as if into thin air.

Drizzt blinked repeatedly, as if awakening from a strange dream.

“Have you seen her?” he asked Alagos.

The tracker shook his head. “Nay; to me, the Great Ash speaks from mind to mind. Whom have you seen?”

“A Silvan woman, by the looks of her, clad in green and brown. She had auburn hair, bound up by a green cloth, and a freckled face,” Drizzt looked at the tracker with a frown. “Do you know her?”

“I used to,” replied Alagos slowly. “’Tis said that Queen Lálisin has made a bargain with the Lord of Mandos, and so her spirit could remain in Middle-earth to watch over her family. Prince Legolas has seen her here on several occasions. Whether it was true sight or just a waking dream, though, no-one could tell.”

“The Queen? The King’s lady who died willingly in Dol Guldur?” asked Drizzt, stunned, “Why would she appear to _me_ , of all people?”

“That I cannot tell, either,” replied Alagos with a shrug. “It could have been her spirit indeed… or the way the Great Ash chose to speak to you. What did she tell you?”

“That I am welcome to stay in Mirkwood as long as I wish,” answered Drizzt, “but that it will never be my true home. That my heart will drive me to the South, to the city of the Dark Elves, for that is the place where I truly belong.”

Alagos remained silent for quite a while, thinking hard.

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” he finally said, “as much as I would hate to see you gone.”

“I thought there are no Drow Elves in Middle-earth,” said Drizzt.

Alagos nodded. “And you were right, for there are none. The Dark Elves, or _Mori-kwendî_ , are how the _Faithful_ are called by those who once dwelt in the Undying Lands. We in the North have mingled with other tribes, which is how the Silvan folk was born. But our Southern cousins have lived in isolation since the Elder Days – they have not changed their ways for at _least_ eight thousand years… or more.”

“How can you know that if you have no contact at all?” wondered Drizzt.

“Oh, we do have contact, albeit sparsely,” answered the tracker. “Messenger birds flow to and fro from time to time; and many of us had chosen to go to them, as they are the guardians of the _Vault of the Dead_.”

“Is that why the Queen – or the Great Ash – told me that I shall have a home there, even beyond my death?” Drizzt found the entire conversation eerie, but he had to admit that it did make sense indeed. Just not the kind of sense he was used to.

Alagos nodded. “I suppose so. As you are from a different world, we cannot tell if Mandos would accept you… or if you can indeed be rehoused at all. But no-one got ever rejected from the _Vault_ ; and who knows, perchance you _will_ wake up to new life with our dead when Arda is re-made.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed Drizzt. “I do not wish to leave your people, though. Strange as it sounds, I feel a strong kinship with you.”

“That is not strange at all,” said Alagos, “for we feel the same way towards you. At least we of the _Faithful_ do – I cannot speak for the nobles of the court. I suppose, thought, that you will feel an even stronger kinship with our Southern cousins, should you ever decide to seek them out.”

“And if I do one day, can you point out the right way for me?” asked Drizzt.

“I can do more than just that,” promised Alagos. “I shall take you to the Stone of Erech myself. That is the place where we can make contact with our kinfolk. ‘Tis always watched by them, in case someone wants to meet them.”

“But you said they live in isolation…”

“They do; they never allow anyone but kin into their city. They do, however, make trade with other people, even though they rarely reveal their true nature. Should you wish to go to them, I can and will take you there myself and speak to them on your behalf. In the meantime, you are welcome in our midst for as long as you want. The Great Ash has spoken; no-one will question her.”

Drizzt found that promising and followed Alagos back to the King’s halls with relief. The ancient tree spirit inhabiting the Great Ash might be right: he might yet wish to go South, to seek out the mysterious Dark Elves and to visit the _Vault of the Dead_. But for the time being, he could remain in Mirkwood, among his distant kin, with his friends… and for a while, there would be peace.

It was more than he had ever hoped for.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After the visit by the Great Ash, Drizzt settled back into his former routine: going on patrols with the Nandor archers under Silinde’s lead, and hunting for the Great Spiders that could still be found in the forest, although they had become shy and confused without the evil spirit of Dol Guldur guiding them. They had even begun to forget their own foul language, as if their minds had become dimmed after Sauron’s fall. They were still dangerous predators, but increasingly less sentient ones, acting on pure instinct rather than led by their former malevolent intelligence, which made the spider hunt a great deal less dangerous.

The same was true for the Wargs. While still huge, ill-spirited and murderous, sentience seemed to slowly trickle away from them. The Elvenking’s huntsmen estimated that they would become ordinary wolves (albeit exceptionally large ones) within two generations.

“What about Orcs?” asked Drizzt Maelduin the Sage during one of their language lections.

The King’s chief councillor shrugged. “They will bother us for a while yet, I deem,” he answered. “Fortunately, their numbers had greatly diminished. Many had been swallowed by the very earth during the last, climatic battle before the Black Gate; others killed themselves in despair or each other in mindless rage. The warrior Uruks of Isengard, the most dangerous ones, had been slain by the Huorns in the Battle of the Hornburg, ‘tis said, which is a great relief. To think what havoc they could have wrought if allowed to escape to the North…”

“Who or what are those Huorns?” asked Drizzt. “I have heard them mentioned before, but I cannot imagine what kind of creatures they might be.”

“Now you have asked a truly difficult question,” replied the Sage, “for even our own scholars are of divided minds about the Huorns. They are among the most ancient of the Olvar that ever lived in Arda; great tree spirits, related to the Onodrim but in a way that remains unclear to us. ‘Tis said, that – after walking the great forests of the Elder Days for many Ages – some if the Onodrim became more tree-like than they were before; and some of the ancient trees became more Ent-like and limb-lithe; they even learned the art of speech. Whether tree or Ent in the beginning, by now they have become a race apart from either and are now named Huorns.”

“And they can move and slay Orcs?” wondered Drizzt.

“Most of the time, they just stand like dark trees in the deepest forests, gnarled and unmoving, yet watchful,” answered Maelduin. “When aroused in wrath, though, they can move swiftly as if wrapped in shadows, falling on foes with deadly and merciless strength.”

“And they did that in one of the recent battles?” asked Drizzt. “What might have moved them to do so?”

“The Onodrim have, or so we are told,” said the Sage. “For those wild wood spirits are bent on destruction of all who threaten the forests, as Curunír, the traitorous wizard did, falling trees all around Isengard. Huorns are dangerous to all who go on two legs, unless those travellers are protected by the Onodrim. And as the Onodrim called them to rise against Isengard, they marched on like a great, moving forest and afterwards slew the entire legion of Uruk-hai before the very gates of the Hornburg.”

“Are they evil, then?” Drizzt had a hard time to imagine an entire forest of limb-lithe, sentient trees, more so as apparently no magic had been involved, but after his own experience with the Great Ash he had to admit that there was perchance more to ancient trees than he would have thought before.

“They are ancient and long-brooding,” replied Maelduin, “and some of them are said to be black-hearted and rotten in the inside. I have heard whispered tales about the Old Forest, on the other side of the Misty Mountains, where many of the trees have been waken up by an ancient Huorn living in their midst; the hearts of those trees are said to be black, and they are held in an enchantment by the power of this ancient tree spirit. I would advise even Wood-Elves against visiting the Old Forest and the great Entwood, unless they have one of the Onodrim accompanying them. No-one else can control the Huorns.”

“So you expect the roads to become safe enough again for more contacts between the North and the South?” asked Drizzt.

Maelduin nodded. “Now that the two realms of Men will be reunited and led by the strong hand of King Elessar, yea, I do,” he replied.

“You speak of this new King as if you would know him,” said Drizzt.

“Oh, but I do know him,” answered the Sage. “For many years, he was the Chieftain of the Rangers of the North – the handful of them who are still left from the people of the Sea-Kings in Eriador. He visited our woods from time to time and even hunted _yrch_ with our people, although his duties mostly kept him on the other side of the Hithaeglir. But as a friend of Mithrandir’s, he sometimes accompanied the Grey Wizard on his journeys throughout the Wilderland.”

“This Mithrandir… is he like Master Aiwendil, whom the King has called to question me?” asked Drizzt.

Maelduin shook his head. “They are of the same Order, but they are very different people,” he said. “I tend to believe that of all the Istari, Aiwendil is perchance the only one without an agenda of his own. Not that we would know much about the Blue Wizards,” he added thoughtfully, “as their track faded from memory after they had gone to the South and the East. But Curunír has fallen to darkness, as we hear, and thus it is now Mithrandir who is the head of their Order.”

“What Order?” asked Drizzt with a frown. “You never spoke to me about any brotherhood of Mannish wizards in Middle-earth.”

“We have not, for there are none,” replied Maelduin. “The Istari might _look_ like elderly Men, but that is only a disguise to conceal their true nature. They were sent from the Undying Lands thousands of years ago, for it was perceived by the Powers of the West that a great evil was growing in Mordor again. They were sent to help Elves and Men to overcome that evil.”

“What _are_ they then?” asked Drizzt. “For they cannot be mere Men, if what you say is true.”

“Nay, they are not,” agreed the Sage. “Some of us believe that – despite the humble form in which they came – before their arrival in Middle-earth they were mighty spirits, older than the world itself, and of the first race that came from the mind of Ilúvatar in the Timeless Halls. Yet the War of Wrath, two Ages ago, has proved that Middle-earth cannot bear the unleashing of the full power that dwells within them; therefore they were limited to the form of Men and the powers that might be found within the diminished world of Arda.”

“How strange,” said Drizzt, “that they have to hold back, although they could have wiped all evil from the face of the earth.”

“They might have,” answered Maelduin, “but Arda cannot bear their full wrath. When the Host of Valinor came at the end of the First Age of the Sun to overthrow the Great Enemy, nearly the entire Beleriand crumbled into the Sea under the weight of their power. Another such war would have broken the rest of Arda beyond healing.”

“Are you telling me that these wizards are, in truth, gods in human disguise?” asked Drizzt.

Maelduin shook his head. “The Powers of the West are not gods. They are the stewards of creation who take care of everything in the name of Ilúvatar, the Maker.”

“Still,” said Drizzt, amazed, “’tis hard to imagine that humble old Man I met in the King’s halls not so long ago to have that kind of power.”

“I imagine that even in the Far West, Master Aiwendil’s main concern were the trees and the birds and other good beasts,” said Maelduin, smiling. “He is said to have been a close companion of the Lady Yavanna, whom you know as Mielikki, and was sent by her with the specific task to protect the Kelvar and the Olvar for her. That is why he has found his place among us very quickly. We can barely imagine a time when he shall not roam these would any longer.”

“Will he return to the West, now that Mordor has fallen?” wondered Drizzt.

Maelduin shrugged. “’Tis hard to tell. What is left from the great forests of the Elder Days will still need protection, I deem. Perchance even more so now that our people are leaving these shores. Men have less understanding for the needs of Arda than we do. Mayhap Aiwendil _will_ be needed here yet. I truly know not.”

A discreet knock on the door interrupted them. At Maelduin’s call Silinde’s son, young Rhimlath came in.

“A messenger has come from Dale,” reported, “with urgent messages for our King… and for Master Drizzt here.”

Maelduin and the Drow exchanged surprised looks.

“Send him in,” said the Sage.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To Drizzt’s delight, the messenger turned out none less than Sir Geraint ap Govannion, the young knight married to Princess Branwen, the only daughter of the late King Brand. He looked splendidly in his finest attire, all in silver and blue and green, with the shield of Dale emblazoned upon his breast, and seemed in the best possible mood.

“Greetings, Lord Maelduin, Master Drizzt,” he said. “I bring you the regards and best wishes of Prince Regent Meilyr ap Brand, who asks you to honour with your presence the coronation of his brother, Prince Bard, to the new King of Dale. The ceremony will take place on the feast of _Belthain_ , at the height of the spring festival.”

“We are honoured,” said the Sage. “alas, our King is still tarrying in the South with his kinfolk; but my lady wife and I shall gladly attend, and so will our daughter with her spouse, Prince Egilstadir of Dor-Lelmin, I am certain.”

“That would please the Prince Regent as well as the future King,” answered the young knight with a broad smile. “Yet you, Master Drizzt, are perchance even more expected – for you shall not be a mere guest.”

“So Prince Bard still wishes me to carry the hilt of the Sword of Cardolan after him in the procession?” asked Drizzt in surprise. He thought the young Man would long have forgotten about that.

“He does,” replied Sir Geraint, “yet there is more. It was King Brand’s dying wish that you be made a Knight of Dale; and ere he lies down his office to make room for the new King, the Prince Regent wishes to fulfil his father’s last wish. You shall be knighted at the beginning of the festival, Master Elf.”

If possible, Drizzt was even more surprised by this – and deeply touched, to tell the truth. As much as he knew that the Men of Dale were an honest, honourable people, he would never expect that the King’s dying wish would be taken quite this seriously. That they would accept a stranger – and one that must remind them of an Orc at that – among the most honoured of their warriors.

It took his breath away for a moment.

“I am most honoured,” he finally managed to say.

“You should be,” said Maelduin. “I have dwelt in these woods for two full Ages, but never in all those years have I once heard that the Men of Dale would show such honour to an outsider.”

“We have not,” agreed Sir Geraint. “Yet never before has anyone done greater service to our people than Master Drizzt. Without him, our town would have been taken, pillaged and destroyed. We owe him more than we – or our children and their children, down to the seventh generation – could ever repay. Showing him due honour is the least we can do.”

“’Tis still very generous of you,” murmured Drizzt. “More so as I cannot promise to live among you for any length of time. I belong with my own kind.”

“And we understand that,” replied the young knight. “Nonetheless, you shall always have a place among us, whenever you choose to visit. And should you ever change your mind, we would be glad to take you in as one of our own.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On that evening, Lord Maelduin – acting in the Elvenking’s stead – held a feast to honour their guests. ‘Twas a modest one where food and drinks were concerned, as the resources of the realm had been greatly replenished during the recent battles, held a clearing near the King’s halls, where some trees had been felled and the ground levelled – a beloved feasting place of the woodland folk.

It was _not_ modest at all in the means of singing, dancing and general merry-making, however. The members of the court, and everyone else who lived close enough to attend, put on their best garments, sitting on sawn rings of the felled trees in a great circle. Their gleaming hair was twined with flowers; green and white gems glinted on the collars and the belts of the nobles; and their faces and their songs were filled with mirth. Loud and clear and fair were those songs, celebrating not only the presence of the honoured guest in their midst but also the end of the war, of which they had emerged victorious, against all hope.

There was a fire in the middle, and silver lanterns were hanging from the branches of the nearby trees. The Wood-Elves clearly knew how to have a good time, coming up for the lack of refined dishes with high spirits. Sir Geraint seemed to enjoy himself immensely – although the pale Elven _feywine_ perchance had something to do with that part. Fortunately, the hunters had been successful in recent days, so at least there was a proper amount of roast venison. The rest of the meal was made up of berries, mushrooms, nuts and other such edible things that the forest could offer.

“I truly wish for your sake that you get the chance to try our King’s cooking one day,” said Silinde, who was seated on Drizzt’s right during the feast. “Most _ellyn_ are passable cooks, of course, but the King has a true gift. Once you have tried his roast venison leg with blueberry sauce, you shall be hooked for life.”

Drizzt shrugged. As a rule, he did not give his food all too much thought, even if he had to admit that never before had he tasted food as delicious as among the Elves of Mirkwood. Even if this was, apparently, simple fare in their eyes.

After the meal, there was much singing and dancing, both of which the woodland folk never seemed to tire. Even Silinde had come wearing a long gown, made of beautifully embroidered green and grey silk that seemed to flow along her slender limbs like water, and she practically dragged the very reluctant Drow to the dancing floor, which, in this case, was a grassy moonlit glade, with the musicians sitting on _telain_ above their heads and with even more silver lanterns hanging from the branches.

At first Drizzt was mortified by the concept of dancing. This was an art he had never been taught, as it was unknown in Drow society. Menzoberranzan had not supported such simple pleasures. Yet Silinde would not leave him alone.

“Someone who fights as artistically and gracefully as you do cannot be frightened away by the simple demands of dancing,” she said, hauling him bodily into the midst of the dancing crowd.

Despite his expectations to the contrary, after he had understood the basics, Drizzt found that he actually _liked_ dancing. Silinde had been right; the moves did have a certain resemblance to swordfight, and once he had found the rhythm, he picked up the steps and twists quite easily.

The ladies of the court apparently found his newly-acquired dancing skills endearing, for he could barely save himself from the requests for the greater part of the evening. And while he did enjoy himself, he was relieved when he finally could sit down again for a while. ‘Twas not the dancing itself that had tired him out – ‘twas nothing compared with weapons training. But he had always led a quiet, solitary life, and connecting with so many people at once, most of whom he had barely known or not at all, sheer overwhelmed him after a while.

Sir Geraint must have felt the same way, for he plummeted onto the ground next to the Drow a little later. His face was red and his eyes were shining, and he had obviously had one or two cups of _feywine_ beyond his endurance, but that did not seem to bother him.

“What a feast!” he said. “Elves truly know how to have a good time; but my tired mortal bones cannot keep up with them any longer.”

“I have watched you,” replied Drizzt with a smile. “You are a very good dancer, sir. I assume that there is a great deal of dancing involved in the festivities in Dale. And singing, too.”

“Oh, there is indeed,” laughed the knight. “Although our dances are not half this graceful, and our songs are somewhat… bawdier, I must admit.”

“That is what _you_ believe, as you have not heard drunken Elves sing yet,” said Silinde, dropping onto the ground gracefully on Drizzt’s other side, mindful of her festive gown. “Tell us about this festival – what will it be like?”

Sir Geraint shrugged. “Well, aside from the coronation itself, ‘tis just your regular spring festival, like the ones the woodland folk often attended in the past. _Belthain_ is the festival of abundant fertility, celebrated to honour the Lady of the fields and pastures, whom the Elves call Yavanna… and many other names, I am told. In ancient times, when war was more frequent in Rhovanion, this festival heralded the beginning of the fighting season for the warriors of the different realms, which is why to the present day new knights are being made during the days of _Belthain_.”

“Sounds bloodthirsty,” commented Silinde, and Sir Geraint laughed.

“Oh, but it is not; not any longer,” he said. “In these days, it has more to do with creating life than it used to have to do with causing death. This is the time when cattle is let out of winter quarters and driven between two fires, for cleansing and hallowing them for the mating time.”

“In truth, this is one of their fire festivals,” added Silinde, who was quite familiar with the customs of Dale, due to her centuries-long association with its people. “Mayhap the most important one, for this is the time when the fire is renewed. All household fires will be extinguished at the beginning of the festival and great bonfires kindled on the hilltops. From these fires, which are considered sacred, the household fries will then be relit, thus cleansing the house ‘til the next festival.”

“You know our customs well, lady,” complimented her Sir Geraint. “Indeed, this is the time of rebirth, for the fire itself, but also for the people and even for the livestock. This is also the time when fairs are held.”

“Fairs?” asked Drizzt. “More than just one, you mean?”

The knight nodded. “Oh, aye; there are usually three distinct market places; one for food and clothes, one for livestock and another one for rare goods, brought up from the South for this very occasion.”

“There are also many games and races, if memory serves me well,” added Silinde. “And music provided by harps, timpans, trumpets, horns and pipes. A mite harsh for Elven ears mayhap, but good one all the same. The Dwarves seem to particularly enjoy it.”

“Aye; that and the mead brought by the Beornings for sale,” laughed Sir Geraint. “There will be also recitations of poems, genealogies and romantic tales, as well as jugglers and jesters. ‘Tis a very merry feast, mayhap the merriest of all our eight primary festivals; for it means the renewal of nature and fertility. That is why marriages are contracted this time, too; including that of our new King.”

“But I thought Prince Bard was already married to the lady Melangell,” said Drizzt in surprise.

Sir Geraint shook his head. “’Tis only a trial marriage,” he explained. “The heir of the throne is not allowed a lasting marriage contract ere he is officially crowned as the Crown Prince, at the age of twenty-four. Prince Bard will only reach that age during Lhammas; that is why he could not be crowned during his father’s life.”

“You mean he is not yet of age?” asked Drizzt. “Is that why Prince Meilyr is ruling as Prince Regent right now?”

“And he will remain co-regent ‘til our new King reaches the age of thirty summers,” said the knight. “The Men of Dale do not wish children to hold the sceptre without support. Prince Meilyr is eleven years older than his brother and has learned the art of ruling a realm at their father’s side for many long years. He will help the young King to grow into his office gradually.”

“Will this then not only be the coronation of Prince Brand but also his wedding?” asked Silinde. “That promises an opulent feast indeed.”

“As opulent as our grieving, war-torn town can afford,” replied the knight soberly. “But at the very least it will be a merry one, lasting two weeks – one before and one after the coronation.”

“In that case,” said Silinde with a grin,” we better start thinking about proper wedding gifts.”

“That,” replied Sir Geraint with the somewhat exaggerated dignity of the moderately drunk, “might be a good idea.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A day later the emissary of Dale, having slept out his slight intoxication, left for home again. At the same time, however, a new arrival excited the King’s halls again. Prince Egilstadir came from Dor-Lelmin, accompanied by a group of his surviving knights, and his sister, the Lady Indreâbhan, who, as Drizzt was told, had been betrothed to the Elvenking’s son for quite some time.

“This match has been desired and agreed to by both our King and the Lord of Dor-Lelmin,” explained Silinde, “to bound the two royal clans even tighter to each other. ‘Tis not the custom of the Sindar to set children into the world during wartime, thought, thus Prince Legolas has asked for the actual wedding to be postponed ‘til the war would end… one way or another.”

“Certainly the King would urge Legolas to fulfil his promise, now that we finally have peace,” added Princess Silivren. “Both he and my husband’s clan are eager to see these two bound.”

There was something in her voice that made Drizzt suspicious. So far, he had always been told that the Elves in Middle-earth bound themselves out of love and of their own free will, for life.

“I did not know that arranged marriages are a custom among your people,” he said.

“Usually, they are not,” answered the princess. “However, Uncle Thranduil had no other way to secure alliances than through the ties of kinship. Unlike other Elven rulers of our Age, he had no Ring of Power to help him protect our realm. The Nandor Elves of Dor-Lelmin are the closest allies of the realm, which is why I was married to Egilstadir and Legolas is supposed to wed Indreâbhan.”

“You do not seem to have any objections,” said Drizzt.

“I have none,” she replied with a shrug. “I would be hard-pressed to find a more worthy match. Egilstadir and I have come to love each other very much, and I am truly happy with him.”

“Yet will Prince Legolas, too, be happy with his arranged bride?” asked Drizzt; something in Silivren’s tone, the way she phrased her answers, told otherwise.

For a while, he princess remained quiet. There was definitely a painful secret concerning the Prince of Mirkwood; one that she clearly was not willing to share with a stranger.

“His case is more… complicated,” she finally said, rather evasively. “But they have both consented to this match and will eventually have to make good of their promises. I do believe that they have a chance to know happiness with each other… but they will have to work for it a bit harder than Egilstadir and I had. I hope they will succeed; they both deserve it. And even though the choice had not been theirs at the beginning, Indreâbhan would be a worthy Queen to any Elven realm of Arda… or even beyond its boundaries.”

Drizzt took a good look at the Nandor princess, who looked more like a waking dream with her ethereal beauty, pale gold hair and wide, indigo blue eyes than a being of mere flesh and blood, and he had to admit that Silivren had been right. This was a Queen if he had ever seen one.

He wondered what might have made Prince Legolas to reluctant about this marriage, arranged or otherwise. Was he mourning his freedom as an unbound Elf? Or had he lost his heart to someone else? Unlikely as it seemed, _that_ was a distinct possibility. The heart often chose differently than the logical mind would have. If anyone, Drizzt could understand that all too well.

Nonetheless, this was not the right time to ask questions about Prince Legolas’ allegiances. Thus Drizzt dropped the topic – albeit with the secret intention to find out more about it later – and went to great Prince Egilstadir. They had not met since the raid on the Easterling camp at the _Goblin’s Den_ , and the Drow was eager to learn the great deeds the Elven Knights had performed in the recent battles.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The oath of the Knights of Dale is based on the one from the movie “Kingdom of Heaven”, obviously. I wanted Dale to have very different customs than Gondor, as described in “The Young Knights”.  
> As for the outcome of this chapter, this is something I have planned from the beginning of the story. It just took me a long time to figure out how to bring it about.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 28**

The next few weeks ‘til the coronation of the future King Bard II of Dale were spent with hectic preparations. Lord Maelduin, Prince Egilstadir and Silinde were discussing the proper wedding gift at great length, and finally decided to gift a finely-made Elven bow upon the new King. The young Man was the progeny of the legendary Bard the Bowman, after all, and said to be a passable archer himself. One could expect that he would appreciate a fine Elven hunting bow, now that such weapons were – hopefully – no longer needed for war.

The gift for the future Queen was no subject of consideration. A festive gown had long been ordered from the seamstresses of Thranduil’s court, and they had been working on it for more than a year already. Now it had hurriedly been finished, and even Drizzt, who had no true understanding about womanly fashion, be it Elven or mortal, had to admit that the results were truly spectacular.

The dress was made of pale silk, somewhere between white and light grey. There seemed to be a silver cross-thread in it, so that it shimmered like the moonlight upon the surface of the Lake. A repeating design of sea lions – half beast, half fish – that had been the symbol of Dale from its earliest days was wrought in gold thread about the neck and the hem, and the sleeves were cut so widely they nearly swept the floor, revealing the pale-gold, long-sleeved undertunic. The gown laced up tightly on the back and followed the shape of the wearer’s upper body ere belling out gracefully from the hips, where it was girdled by a golden belt made of interlinking flowers with little white and green gems in their middle. There could be no doubt that the new Queen would look absolutely stunning in it.

For his part, Drizzt worried a bit about not having a gift of his own for the royal couple, but Silinde told him that it would not be expected.

“Just make sure to have a silver coin on you,” she said. “As a new Knight of Dale, you might be expected to visit the holy well, and a silver coin will be needed for the ritual.”

“What kind of ritual?” asked Drizzt. “I have no coin that would be accepted here; just some pieces left from my old life.”

“That would do,” she replied. “I am not entirely familiar with the details, though. But worry not – your friends will teach you of that which will be needed. All I know is that at some point a silver coin has to be thrown into the well. Do you have a silver coin? No other metal would be allowed.”

Drizzt pulled the small, almost empty purse from his belt. He had kept it during the long, lonely years in Faerûn, after the deaths of his friends, although he no longer had need for any coin in the wilderness. But it had sentimental value for him, as a reminder of his years spent among the Men and Dwarves of Icewind Dale.

Emptying the meagre contents into one palm now, he found a few copper pieces and _one_ silver coin – yet that one was not meant to be traded for goods or aught else. For it was a ceremonial coin, blessed by the Druids of Mielikki, meant to remind him of the respect he owed the goddess he had once served. He had all but forgotten about it.

“I can get you a silver piece from the treasurer if you want,” said Silinde, seeking his stricken face. “In case you would wish to keep this one.”

“No,” answered Drizzt slowly. “I believe it would be only proper to give it up for the same Lady here I used to serve back home… as a symbol of my new life. I cannot think of any other thing that would be more appropriate.”

“Mayhap so,” she said, “yet it clearly means a great deal for you.”

“It does,” he replied. “This symbolises my choice to turn my back on the evil ways of my own people and serve Mielikki, the Lady of life and light instead. The very choice that has led me to you in the end – to this new, happier life. If I give the coin to the well of the Lady Yavanna, as you call her, it will mean even more to me. It will mean that I do, indeed, have a new life and a new home here in Middle-earth.”

Silinde nodded in understanding. It made sense, especially for her, who had made a similar transition – albeit on a much smaller scale – when she had left her Nandor tribe in Dor-Lelmin to join King Oropher’s court.

“You shall always have a home with us,” she said.

“That is not what the Great Ash seems to think,” replied Drizzt wistfully, “although she also said I could stay as long as I wish.”

“You certainly do,” said Silinde. “Even if you do decide to go to the Mori-kwendi one day, we shall always see you as one of our own.”

“I know,” answered Drizzt, “and I am grateful, I truly am. I never thought I would be accepted by surface Elves one day.”

“Well, as we have no malevolent Drow in Middle-earth, we had it easier than the surface Elves of Faerûn might have,” pointed out Silinde. “We can afford to judge you by your deeds alone, and _those_ deserve respect. Come now. Have you already packed your saddlebags for the journey? We are to leave for Dale in two days' time.”

“Are you coming, too?” asked Drizzt in pleasant surprise, as he knew that Lord Maelduin wanted to take as little an entourage as possible, so that they would not become a burden for the royal household of Dale.”

Silinde laughed. “You thought I would miss a coronation at _Belthain_? I was there every time a new King of Dale was crowned, back to Girion and several of _his_ forefathers – I certainly would not miss _this_ one. Besides, as a Knight of Dale you will be expected to arrive in female company. I offer my assistance for that part if it is acceptable for you.”

“Only if you are going to wear that dark green gown with the silver leaf embroidery you were wearing on the fest held in Sir Geraint’s honour,” grinned Drizzt.

Silinde grinned back at him. “That can be arranged.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Two days later a small group of Elves left the King’s Halls and headed for Dale, following the western side of the Long Lake. It consisted of Lord Maelduin, Lady Nelladel, Prince Egilstadir with his wife and his sister, Drizzt and Silinde, as well as six guards and six of Egilstadir’s Elven knights. This time they all rode the silver-coated horses of Dor-Lelmin, for the sake of a more dignified appearance, and Drizzt was once again reunited with the good beast he had ridden during his time with the Nandor Elves. The journey was short and easy a-horse, and they arrived at Dale in the early afternoon in high spirits.

Their arrival caused great excitement in the town, which was still wearing many wounds from the brutal siege, despite the joint efforts of Elves and Men to bring it into a respectable shape for the spring festival. The people, though, seemed in high spirits, and having Elves among them apparently delighted them to no end.

“We are used to the woodland folk attending our feasts,” explained Cuhelyn ap Rhys, who would not let himself be deprived of the pleasure to welcome them in person, accompanied by a selected troop of Gate Guards in their full, festive attire. “But it is a rare honour that the people of Dor-Lelmin would come, too,” he bowed towards Egilstadir and Princess Indreâbhan. “Welcome to Dale, my Lord, my Lady. We shall be glad to show you the respect we no longer can show Master Tuilindo and the others who have given their immortal life to help us protect our home.”

“We fought a common enemy,” replied Egilstadir with a smile, “and victory, unexpected as it was, had been paid dearly, by both our peoples. Still, even though the losses were grievous, we can all rejoice in the fact that Arda will hopefully be safe, for many years to come.”

Having thus exchanged pleasantries, the guests were led to the King’s House, where Princess Eilonwy greeted and welcomed them most warmly. As Queen Regath – according to custom – no longer carried out any public functions, and Lady Melangell had not been crowned yet, the young wife of the Prince Regent served as the head of the royal household. She had almost completely recovered from her battle-related injuries, Drizzt found, and looked radiant, even in the presence of such stunning Elven beauties as Lady Nelladel or the Princesses Silivren and Indreâbhan.

“Welcome to Dale and thanks for honouring _Belthain_ with your presence,” she said. “I have arranged chambers for you in the King’s guest house… I hope they will be adequate. They are the best ones we have, although I fear they cannot match that to which you might be used from home.”

“I am certain they will be more than fine,” reassured her Lady Nelladel. “Despite what you might have heard about my brother, we of the woodland realm are a simple folk with simple tastes.”

“Still, you represent the royal family of an allied realm and deserve the best we can offer,” replied Eilonwy. Then she turned to the ranking males of the party. “Lord Maelduin, my Lord Prince, my husband would have a word with you if you do not mind. Drudwas ap Aeddan will take you to him at once. I shall escort the ladies to the Queen’s wing myself in a moment. As for you, Master Drizzt, I must ask you to wait here just a little longer. Sir Anarawd will be with you shortly; you are expected to stay with the knight-probationers for the duration of the festival, as you shall be knighted together with them.”

Albeit a bit surprised, Drizzt agreed to wait, while the other Elves were led away. And indeed, a short time later Sir Anarawd came in to fetch him.

The chief of the Knights of Dale was a landed lord of his own right and said to have the blood of the Sea-Kings in his veins, through a noblewoman of Arnor who had supposedly married one of his ancestors. Whether this was true or but a family legend, no-one could tell. But Sir Anarawd _was_ taller than the average Man of Dale and _did_ have grey eyes, which were the usual traits of the people of Westernesse. Right now, he was not wearing any knightly armour or weaponry, though, just a rich attire of dark green and black velvet, as his rank demanded. After all, he was also the father of the future Queen.

He took Drizzt to the _Hall of the Warriors_ : a walled building with a practice field behind it, which served as the temporary home of the knight-probationers as well as the meeting and training place of the Knights of Dale. 'Twas a fairly simple mansion, consisting of a long hall, where the knights gathered and sometimes dined together, the weapons chambers and the bedchambers of the knight-probationers who lived there during their training.

One of those chambers was assigned to Drizzt for the duration of his stay. He stored his saddlebags there, then he was led to the Hall to meet the others.

The Knights of Dale, Sir Anarawd explained him, had always been twelve in the number – at least those belonging to the royal court by tradition. Other people could – and frequently did – get knighted, but only these twelve were allowed to bear the honorary title _Knight of Dale_ and the sea lions of the realm on their shields. According to King Bard’s dying wish, Drizzt was now about to be added to this time-honoured institution as the thirteenth knight… a status that had never been granted anyone before, even less so to a stranger. But the Men of Dale were well aware of the fact that they stood deep in the Drow’s debt and wanted to express their gratitude in this way.

Four of the original twelve had been slain during the siege, and only two of the knight-probationers were far enough in their training to fill the shoes of their fallen comrades: Sir Geraint’s younger brother Owain, and Finion, the son of Sir Anarawd.

“For a while yet our rows shill remain incomplete,” sighed Sir Anarawd. “’Tis still better than accepting untrained youths among us. It takes years for a Knight of Dale to learn everything that will be expected from him; that is what makes us a formidable force in battle. We might have peace now for quite some time, I hope. But new evils can always rise, and we need to remain watchful.”

Drizzt had to admit that _that_ was very true indeed; then their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the surviving Knights of Dale. Some of them, like Sir Geraint, he already knew; the others he had at least seen during the siege, for they had fought in the front line without exception.

He was then formally introduced to each of them and entrusted to the care of one Sir Rheinallt, a tall, flaxen-haired knight of most likely northern blood in his mid-fifties, to be instructed in the ways of the Knights of Dale in general and the intricacies of the knighting ceremony in particular. Apparently, each knight-probationer had an experienced mentor to guide him on his way, for which Drizzt was grateful. More so as Sir Rheinallt turned out to be an easy-going man of dry wit and all around a delightful company.

“We do not stand on ceremony as much as the Men of Gondor do,” the Man explained. “Knighting is a rather simple affair in Dale. All which is required is that you learn the words of the pledge; and, of course, a visit to the holy well.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning, however, things proved a tad more complicated than just that. First thing in the morning, Sir Rheinallt took Drizzt to the seamstresses, so that he could be outfitted with the proper attire of a Knight of Dale: a knee-length, silver-and-green tunic, with the coat-of-arms of Dale emblazoned upon the breast, black trousers and a long, hooded green cloak. They always had a few of those ready, they explained, so all that needed to be done was to take out a little from the width of the tunic, as Drizzt was considerably more narrowly built than the average Man of Dale.

After that, they visited Dafydd ap Elis, the King’s weapons master, who provided Drizzt with the traditional shield and longsword that the Knights of Dale were supposed to bear. There could be no better armour found than the Dwarven hauberk gifted upon him by Master Glóin but he had to wear a helm, at least on ceremonial occasions, so they found one for him where his thick mane of white hair could fit in. That made him look a little bulky-headed, but Drizzt did not truly mind… it mattered little to him.

Having all those things done to Sir Rheinallt’s satisfaction, they were called to the King’s House, where Prince Meilyr was waiting for Drizzt in the company of the royal archivist: an elderly man by the name of Cadwgawn ap Cadoc.

“Master Elf,” said the Prince Regent gravely, after the proper greetings had been spoken, “’tis a time-honoured custom that the Knights of Dale would be landed, so that their shares can offer them a living and leave all their strength focused on the protection of the town. Yet it is also law that our lands may not go to outsiders, so that we can always dispose freely over that which is our own,” he was using the royal plural, as the lands granted to the Knights belonged, by right, to the Crown, and right now, _he_ represented the Crown. “So we saw us forced to find a different solution for you.”

He led the surprised Drow to the window and showed him a small yet well-built house, a little further down the street.

“The house you see there belonged to Sir Mervyn, one of our Knights who fell during the siege,” he said. “He had no siblings, nor a family of his own, thus his lands will go back to the Crown. Yet his house we shall gift upon you, Master Drizzt, together with knighthood that shall be bestowed upon you; and we have taken the liberty to appoint servants to the house who would be taking care of it in your absence: the freed slave from Rhûn, Bannâtha, to be your steward, and his young brother, Razanur, to be your manservant. Are they acceptable choices for you?”

Drizzt gave his consent, amazed by the wisdom of the choice as well as overwhelmed by the generosity shown towards him. He had never hoped that one day he would have a place to call his own. Even though he intended to return to his kind after the coronation, he would always have a home in Dale, too. Just as the former slaves would have a place and a purpose and the chance to settle down and get accepted by the people of the town, eventually. And should Drizzt not return to Dale at all, they and their sons could run the house in his name as their own in all but name. It had been a wise choice indeed.

Master Cadwgawn had already prepared the documents which were now read and explained, as they had been written in Angerthas runes as used in Dale, which Drizzt could not read. Then Prince Meilyr signed them and confirmed the grant with the royal seal. Drizzt was officially a free man (well, a free _Elf_ , perhaps, in his case) of Dale, with property to his name and servants to take care of said property… not something he would have expected ever since leaving Menzoberranzan.

Having received his copy of the grant, Drizzt now went with Sir Rheinallt to take a closer look of his newly acquired property. Bannâtha and Razanur were already there, wearing the simple yet respectable garb of good, homespun wool that servants of Dale usually wore. They seemed more than happy with their new position... unlike the housekeeper of the late Sir Mervyn, a stout widow in her early forties by the name of Nest. While she was glad that she could keep her position in the household, she seemed frightened by her new master; as did her daughter, a pretty little thing of about seventeen, named Gwen… apparently a by-blow of her former master.

Still, they could not afford to be choosy. With so many households left masterless due to the siege, one was fortunate to find any employment at all. And even if Gwen had been acknowledged by her late sire – which she had not – as a girl-child she could not have inherited that which had been granted to Sir Mervyn due to his position as a Knight of Dale. Thus Nest had not even thought of seeking out other work, even if her new master frightened her to death.

That the two women were so obviously afraid of him saddened Drizzt a little – it called back unpleasant memories from Faerûn – but he could not truly blame them. Black skin and scimitars had always meant Orcs to these people, and neither Mistress Nest, nor young Gwen had been among those who had fought on the walls. They had not seen the proof of their new master’s true allegiances.

Bannâtha on the other hand had, and he was looking at his new master with very different eyes; so was his young brother.

“They _will_ get used to you, Master Drizzt,” he said. “Just give them time.”

“They will not have to,” answered Drizzt, “as I shall not live here all the time. I am returning to Mirkwood, to my own kin. Perchance in time I shall even move further south. This house and those who live in it will be your responsibility.”

“It has been ordered that – as Master Drizzt has not been granted any actual lands – the Crown take care of the necessities for keeping the house in a good shape; and for your payment;” added Sir Rheinallt. “Prince Meilyr also asks you, Master Drizzt, that in exchange any visiting Elves be housed in your home.”

Drizzt nodded. “Certainly. At least that way the house would not stay empty all year.”

Neither of them could foresee that this agreement would lay the foundation to the _Dark Elf’s Inn_ , which, within two generations, would become quite a famous place in Dale.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The next couple of days were spent with studying the traditions of the Knights of Dale, which proved to be fairly ancient and time-honoured ones, and with preparations for the actual knighting. The latter was to be performed by Prince Meilyr, as his last official act as the independent Regent, so that the new King would already have a nearly full circle of knights to protect him.

A very important part of said preparations was the much referred-to visit to the holy well. As it turned out, Dale had several of these sacred places, all situated in what was considered holy hains, some of them visited by men, some by women only, some by both genders, old and young. The Lady Yavanna and the Lord Oromë, whom they called Aldaron in Wood-Elf fashion, were greatly respected among the Men of Dale.

The particular holy well the Knights of Dale favoured for their ritual purposes was hidden in the midst of a densely-grown glade of short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, intermingled with beeches, hollies and copsewood of various sorts. In the middle of the glade, there was a small, flat hillock, and on top of that hillock a circle of large, rough, unhewn standing stones, some of them still upright, others dislodged from their places by the forces of nature or by some unknown intent of Men… it would have been hard to tell. One of the huge, dislodged slabs had somehow rolled down the hillock – a long time ago, if its withered, moss-covered surface was any indication – and broke in two pieces. Between those pieces the clear, bubbling water of the well broke free from the rocky foot of the hill, fell into a wide stone basin and, overflowing, glided smoothly around the hillock to become a small brook, one of the many tributaries of the River Running.

As instructed in advance by Sir Rheinallt, Drizzt walked three times around the well. Then he took the silver coin blessed by the Druids of Meilikki, kissed it for one last time and threw it into the well, where it came out of the rock, so that it would fall deeply, to the very roots of the hillock, to the depths of the very earth itself. Then he drank from the well, using his cupped hands only. By doing this, he should have been thinking of a wish – but he found that he had none. He was content with his life, more so than ever before.

When all this was done, he fastened three ribbons – one green, one silver and one sea blue, the colours of Dale – on a nearby three, where countless other ribbons, left there by his fellow knights, were fluttering in the light breeze. Finishing the ritual, he left the holy hain in complete silence, as he had come, ere the sun would rise.

After their visit to the holy well, the knight-probationers were supposed to spend the morning alone and in contemplative silence… something that young Men might have found difficult, but which matched Drizzt’s own solitary nature very well.

Shortly before the tenth hour, Sir Rheinallt came to take him to the bell-tower, as knighting, like every other event of public interest, would take place there, where the entire town could watch it if they wanted. Just like the Lakemen, the people of Dale showed a definite interest for public affairs and were standing and sitting all around the belfry: on the roofs, upon the walls and whatever convenient place they could find, wearing their best clothes to honour the occasion that was considered an important one in the life of the town.

The members of the court, gathered under the bell-tower, were at their resplendent best, too. Some of the ladies – before all else the three princesses – wore gowns that showed the excellence of Elven workmanship, as a proof of the good relations between Dale and Mirkwood. Princess Eilonwy, in particular, was wearing a bliaut of dark green brocade in leaf pattern, decorated with silver leaf embroidery on the neck, front and sleeve hems and laced up with silver cord on the back – a gown with a striking likeness to the one Silinde was wearing, only cut in Dale fashion. Her hair was hidden under a veil of white silk, kept in place by the silver crown due to her rank, which wore the mark of Dwarven marksmanship. The nobility of Dale generally seemed to prefer green, blue, black and silver, in contrast to the more colourful garb of the common folk.

Drizzt was surprised to see the veiled, black-clad figure of Queen Regath among the members of the court, but Sir Rheinallt explained him that she would only retreat into complete seclusion after her son had been crowned. Until then, tradition demanded that she supported the Prince Regent with her presence as dowager queen, even though she was not granted any true power. Likewise, while present and richly attired, neither Prince Bard nor his bride ha taken any central position within the court; and they were not yet wearing the royal symbols, either.

The Prince Regent and his wife were clearly the most important acteurs of this day’s ceremony. Prince Meilyr, clad in black velvet and with the silver crown upon his brow, looked kingly enough indeed, and no-one could doubt that his wisdom and guidance would serve the young King well for years to come. This was his last major public act ere he would step down and hand over formal power to his brother, and he seemed determined to make a good performance.

Meirion the Bell-guard played a solemn melody on the many bells of the belfry, and the future knights were led before the Prince Regent in procession, led by their respective guides and followed by the rest of their comrades, all clad in full knightly regalia. Upon their arrival, Prince Meilyr rose from the royal chair and looked around the townsfolk watching the scene with excitement.

“People of Dale,” he said in a clear, ringing voice that carried to the farthest corner of the square, “’tis my sacred duty and great honour to bestow knighthood upon those who have dedicated their lives to protect this town, its King and the people who inhabit it. You all know that four of our Knights – namely Sir Cadwaladr, Sir Dewydd, Sir Mervyn and Sir Trahean – were slain in the siege… may their names be always remembered. Alas, only two of our knight-probationers have already finished their training and can step into the empty places of our circle. I present you Finion ap Anarawd and Owain ap Govannion, your future protectors.”

The people on the walls and rooftops applauded enthusiastically and shouted encouragements to the two young Men whom they had known since their childhood. Nobility had never been very numerous in Dale; even less so after the coming of the Dragon, and they all led very public lives, being considered the pride and property of the common folk, not the other way round.

“However,” continued Prince Meilyr, rising his voice easily above the joyful noise, “with his dying breath, my father, the late King, had requested that his champion, the Dark Elf Drizzt Do’Urden from the House _Daernon N'shezbaernon_ , be ennobled and raised into the circle of the Knights of Dale, as a small reward for slaying the Lord of the Nazgûl and thus turning the tide of the battle and saving our town. Gladly shall I do this, to honour the King’s dying wish and to repay a little of our debt. Are there any who would wish to object?”

No voices were raised. Even if there had been those who did not like the idea of such a strange creature being knighted, they knew better than to speak up. Everyone knew what they owed the stranger.

Prince Meilyr nodded in well-concealed relief. He had hoped there would be no public protests, but one could never know for certain. The Kings of Dale – or, in his case, their representatives – ruled with the consent of the people, therefore they could not dismiss any objections in such cases. Fortunately, many had seen Drizzt fight on the walls and later face the Witch-king and understood their obligation towards him.

“Very well,” said the Prince Regent. “I ask the guides of the future knights then to bring their charges before us.”

As tradition demanded, Sir Rheinallt, Sir Anarawd and Sir Geraint took the hands of Drizzt, Finion and Owain and led them before the Prince Regent, where they were instructed to kneel. Prince Meilyr draw his hereditary sword and touched Drizzt’s throat with its tip first, reciting the ancient words of warning to the future knight.

“Be without fear in the face of thine enemies,” he said, his clear voice audible perhaps in the entire town. “Be brave and upright, so that thy King may love thee. Speak the truth always, even if it leads to thy death. Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong. Defend the King, and if the King is no more, protect the people. Do you swear to follow these tenets as long as you have the strength to wield thy sword?”

“I swear,” answered Drizzt.

The Prince Regent now turned the sword and touched with the flat blade both shoulders of the new knight, and finally the top of his head. 

“Rise then, Sir Drizzt, Knight of Dale,” he said, “and always remember thy oath!”

Drizzt rose obediently, allowing Sir Rheinallt to girdle him with the sword-belt similar to those worn by the other knights and to help him into the green cloak. The ceremony now was repeated for Sir Finion and Sir Owain, and then they were allowed to accept the congratulations and good wishes of their friends and family… which, considering that the Knights of Dale were known by practically everyone in the town and related to half of it, was quite the lengthy process.

Drizzt had no family here, of course, but he was surprised how many friends he had apparently made. The Elves of Mirkwood and Dor-Lelmin were the first ones to congratulate him, but many of the townsfolk who had fought with him came to express their delight and deliver their best wishes. Even Master Otir and young Leifdall had sailed up the Long Lake to witness his day of honour and were now beaming at him with almost proprietary pride. 

After the stream of well-wishers ebbed down, court and people relocated to the training grounds, so that Sir Finion and Sir Owain could show their skills in the various disciplines of knightly combat. Drizzt, as an honourable member of this elated circle, was not required to participate in the jousting, but he did display his unique skill with the blade, to the great delight of the people.

Following the games, a large banquet was held in the _Hall of Knights_ , with Prince Meilyr and his wife presiding and all knights and their respective families participating. There was an copious meal, with good wine, scoops and storytellers entertaining the guests, and afterwards, after the long trestle table had been carried out, there was much dancing.

Honouring her promise, Silinde had come to accompany Drizzt on the banquet. She was wearing _that_ dress of dark green, and a golden circle with small white and green gems upon her brow. Her hair was intricately woven with green ribbons and twisted around her head like a coronet, revealing her elegantly pointed ears, in which she had emerald studs. Similarly fashioned bracelets of gold and emerald adorned her arms, left uncovered by the wide, sweeping sleeves of her gown. She was very different from the tough archer captain Drizzt had come to know, and he had to admit that she was almost devastatingly beautiful.

“There are moments I wish you were not bound to another,” he murmured in half-jest, leading her to the dancing floor as it was expected him. She gave him a somewhat rueful smile.

“Sometimes _I wish_ I were not,” she admitted, “but I am, and regardless of how lonely it can be at times, ‘tis not something I can change.”

“And yet your people do remarry,” pointed out Drizzt.

Silinde nodded. “Some of us do. Some have come to give up on their spouses; mostly those who do not intend to leave Middle-earth, no matter what. But just like our King, I am not one of those. I still miss Ninnagor and hope to meet him again one day, in Elvenhome – even if my son and his wife choose to stay behind.”

“I know,” said Drizzt. “I was not proposing… although, were you free, I would not be adverse…”

“Neither would I,” admitted Silinde. “You would be a good choice, despite the fact that I would lose you in what is but a short time in our eyes… at least for that time, I would not be alone. But it would be unfair to you… _and_ to Ninnagor.”

“Would your son take offence if you sought comfort by someone?” asked Drizzt.

Silinde shook her head. “Nay, he would understand. It would still be cheating, though…”

“Would it?” Drizzt lifted her easily off her feet as that particular dance figure demanded; he was getting a hang on this dancing stuff, especially with such a skilled and inspiring dancing partner. “Are _you_ not cheated of your spousal rights, though? Yes, I know ‘tis not your husband’s fault, but… does that change the fact that you have been alone for three millennia? Have you never been tempted to find someone, at least for a while?”

“I have,” Silinde sighed,” although not often. “And it is not that simple. We Elves of Middle-earth usually bond for life. Even if I had taken another husband, he would want a bond I could not give him, as the one to Ninnagor has never been severed. I cannot be bound for life to two _ellyn_ at the same time.”

“What about Men?” asked Drizzt. “I know there have been cases…”

“… and they always ended in heartbreak for the Elf involved,” Silinde interrupted. Watching their mortal spouse to grow old and die… or fleeing their homes to avoid that… or giving up the grace of their lives, in case of the Peredhil… it never has a happy ending.”

“The same would be true if you were to choose me, then,” said Drizzt, escorting her back to the refreshments after the dance. “I, too, will grow old and die, eventually – it would just take me longer than it would for a Man. What would make _me_ a better choice?”

“You may not be immortal as we are, yet you still _are_ an Elf,” answered Silinde thoughtfully. “You understand that I cannot bind myself to you, as I am already bound. A Man could never accept that – ‘tis not in their _nature_.”

“That is true,” Drizzt admitted after some consideration. “And I can even spare you the discomfort of watching me wither away – I can always go south to the _Mori-kwendí_ ere that happens,” he paused and handed her a cup of wine. “What is it you require from me then, Silinde Ladyhawk? Speak feely. I respect you and admire you and consider you a friend. I would give you whatever you need, if it is in my power.”

“I am uncertain whether it truly is,” she replied seriously, “for I am uncertain about my own heart as well. All I know is that I have come to care for you… yet not enough to sever my bond to Ninnagor.”

“I would never ask you to do that,” said Drizzt; for in truth, as much as he admired her, he had never considered her within his reach. He had never hoped to become aught else than a friend for her… a comrade of arms.

“I know you would not,” she replied with a sigh. “But I would only be using you to fend off loneliness; it would be a most dishonourable thing to do.”

“Not if I know and consent,” Drizzt shrugged. “Where I come from, males are _supposed_ to serve the needs of the females. The thought is neither strange, nor repulsive to me – and I would gladly ease your heart, for I have never met anyone quite like you.” He kissed her hand in a most courteous manner as he had seen Lord Maelduin do it to the Lady Nelladel… well, perchance not quite that elegantly, not having the same long experience, but close enough.

Silinde blushed; it was a lovely sight, contrasting her ash blond hair and dark green gown. “I am not comfortable with the thought,” she admitted.

“’Tis a bit awkward,” Drizzt agreed, “more so as we started off differently. But things between two living people are never set in stone… and if we can ease each other’s heart, mayhap we should have the courage to do so.”

“Mayhap we should,” replied Silinde, still a little doubtfully. “I only fear that we would make things even worse.”

“Not as long as we know that it is not for ever,” said Drizzt quietly. “For we must both remember that your path will lead to the Havens, eventually, and beyond those to Elvenhome and back to your spouse. Mine, however, will take me to the South, to the _Vault of the Dead_ ; for that is the only place in Middle-earth where I can find refuge after I have shed the confinements of this body.”

“Could you do that?” asked Silinde uncertainly.

Drizzt nodded. “Truly, I could. All my life, I have never had aught that would last. I am used to it, and it bothers me not. I have learned to value that which is _now_ , regardless of how long it may last. Sometimes ‘tis better to have something good for a short time and then lose it than not having it at all.”

“’Tis a strange logic that you follow,” said Silinde, “but I can see the reason behind it… at least from a mortal point of view. Mayhap we are too settled in our ways… I can no longer tell for certain what is right and what is wrong. You confuse me greatly, Drizzt Do’Urden, and I am not used to be confused. I do not like it.”

“’Tis not easy to adapt to fundamentally new concepts,” Drizzt agreed. “If anyone, I should know, after all the unexpected changes in my life. In the end, though, it all comes down to one question: What is it that you truly want?”

Silinde sighed. This went against anything she had been taught, anything she had lived by all her life. She knew if she gave in, she might regret it, having to live with the guilt ‘til the end of Arda. But she also knew that if she refused the generous offer of this strange and beautiful dark creature who had managed to outgrow his dark origins and became a hero against all odds, she would ask herself for eternity what it might have been like.

Ninnagor would understand; she knew that. An entire Age spent in constant struggle against the forces of the Darkness was a long time, even for Elves. She had fought that long twilight struggle without comfort, without hearts-ease, and she had never felt that she would miss something… until now. Now that the struggle was over, she felt she could not do it any longer.

“I want _not_ to be alone anymore,” she said quietly.

Drizzt nodded and gave her one of his rare smiles. “I shall stay with you as long as I can,” he promised simply.

He could not promise aught else, and they both knew that. Even now that Mordor had fallen and Sauron was but a black memory, there were no guarantees. Things could change from one moment to another. Drizzt could be pulled back to Faerûn by forces beyond their control; either of them could die, or they could be forced apart by unforeseeable circumstances. And in the end, if none of those happened, Drizzt would inevitably die, and Silinde would sail, as Ninnagor would never be able to return to Middle-earth. 

They had no future together; neither did they ultimately _want_ to have one. All they had was the present; but at least in the present, they _could_ have each other… assuming Silinde made up her mind. ‘Twas up to her now.

She looked around in the feasting hall. Spirits were running high, the dance floor was crowded, and most people seemed a little drunk already.

“Do you believe they would miss us?” she asked. Drizzt grinned.

“Not if we leave quickly and discretely,” he replied.

And since they were close to one of the entrances already, that was what they did.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spring festival and the coronation rites of Dale are completely made up by me, using Celtic festivals as the basis for them. My thanks to Lady Masterblott for coming up with the talking-to-birds part.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**PART 29**

‘Twas but three hours after midnight when Razanur, having been instructed by Sir Rheinallt thoroughly about what would be expected from his new master regarding the coronation ceremony, knocked on the door of the Drow’s bedchamber.

“Master Drizzt,” he called, “’tis time for you to get up. You are supposed to appear in the _Hall of Knights_ within the hour. Your bath is prepared – would you wish an early breakfast?”

The door opened almost immediately, and his master came out, wearing a long robe of soft, dark wool, and closing the door behind him carefully.

“I have been up already,” said the Dark Elf, “and I need neither breakfast nor any assistance with my bath. My hauberk would need clearing, though, so see to it. And take my green cloak out of the press and polish my boots. That would be all.”

Razanur recognized the dismissal and left in a hurry, wondering why his master so obviously wanted him out of the way. Drizzt waited until he was gone, then stepped back into the bedchamber for a moment.

“I must go now,” he said to Silinde, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, rebraiding her hair. “This part of the house will be empty for a little while. You can return to the guest room unbothered.”

Silinde nodded. They would have more privacy on the treetops in Mirkwood; living as crowded as Men did was inconvenient. Not that she would be ashamed of her choice – she was _not_ – but neither of them wished to become the subject of local gossip. Whatever might be between them, it was their private matter.

“I shall see you at the ceremony, then,” she replied, kissing him briefly. “I am supposed to escort Lady Nelladel there, so I, too, must hurry.”

“I am looking forward to it,” said Drizzt, and he meant it. Appearing in her company publicly – and being envied for said company – was a privilege, now more so than before.

They parted company, each going his or her way to prepare for the ceremony. After having enjoyed his bath thoroughly, Drizzt allowed Razanur – who was learning his new duties with astonishing speed – to clad him in his knightly attire and accepted a piece of bread and a cup of wine instead of breakfast. He felt he would not be able to eat properly, but going to a lengthy ceremony on an empty stomach would not have been wise, either.

Barely was he done when Sir Rheinallt arrived. Native Knights of Dale, who had grown up with the traditions of their town, would not have needed a guide any longer, but Sir Anarawd wanted to spare Drizzt any embarrassment and thus asked Sir Rheinallt to continue his role ‘til the end of the coronation. Drizzt was grateful for the help. The few days he had spent in the _Hall of Knights_ had been far from enough to learn everything he needed to know. Besides, Sir Rheinallt was the second-oldest among the knights of Dale, and the only one save from their chief who had already seen a coronation ceremony – that of the late King Bard, in his youth.

“On the eave of the feast, auguries are taken,” he explained. “Particularly the appearances of thrushes, ravens and Great Eagles are considered important… and a good omen. The future King must prove that he can talk to the birds; and then the Dowager Queen interprets the patterns of their flying and foretells what she has learned about the upcoming rule of the new King.”

“Have the Eagles come?” asked Drizzt, knowing from the legends he had heard about the importance of those majestic birds.

Sir Rheinallt nodded. “Gwaihir the Windlord himself graced the ritual, with his brother, Landroval the Swift. No King could ask for any greater honour.”

“I can imagine,” said Drizzt. “I only regret that I could not see them.”

“’Tis a ritual done in the circle of the noblewomen of Dale and no other male but the future King is allowed, as the Queen has to appear unveiled,” explained Sir Rheinallt; then he smiled. “Both my wife and my sister were among the witnesses. They say it was a moving ceremony.”

“You are a married man?” asked Drizzt in surprise. This was the first time that the knight would mention his family.

Sir Rheinallt laughed. “Why, certainly! And to the sister of Lord Idwal, no less, who is Sir Idris’ father. And my sister, who is much younger than I, is married to Sir Emrys. Dale is a small realm; we are all related to each other to a certain degree; even if only by marriage.”

“Finding a suitable wife cannot be very easy then,” commented Drizzt, knowing that incest was not tolerated among these people.

“It has its moments,” admitted Sir Rheinallt. “Which is why my mother came from the Northmen. There are ways if one is willing to look out for them,” he walked around Drizzt, checking his appearance, then nodded. “You will do nicely. Now, for your esquire…”

“I do not have one,” reminded him Drizzt.

“Nonsense,” said the knight. “That is what young Razanur is here for. Go to the housekeeper, lad, and ask her for the proper attire. They must have some from the times of Sir Mervyn; he trained several young pages in his time, and trained them well.”

He proved right, and a short time later Razanur returned, glowing with pride, wearing the traditional green tabard and black trousers of a knight’s esquire. The clothes hung a little awkwardly on him, as he had not yet recovered from the affects of malnourishment suffered in all those years as Master Turcaill’s slave, but at least he did look like a proper esquire.

“You will fill out the clothes eventually,” judged Sir Rheinallt. “A little time and enough food will soon put some more flesh on your bones. Now, we must go, though. Your master is expected at the King’s House.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Despite the early hour, the King’s House was buzzing with activity when they arrived. The Knights of Dale were already present, standing in formation in the courtyard, carrying burning torches. From there, they would lead the procession to the King’s Seat, the most sacred place outside the town.

As he was supposed to play a significant role in the procession, Drizzt was led into the house by a servant. And not just into the house, but right to the treasure chamber, where the ancient heirlooms of the royal clan were kept: the bow of King Bard I, the Black Arrow that had been retrieved from the Dragon’s corpse, the staff of ruling, the shards of the Sword of Cardolan, the royal mantle, Girion’s Ring that had gone from father to son in unbroken line, and, most importantly, the crown itself. Various nobles and great heroes of the realm had been selected to carry these sacred items to the coronation, each according to his importance or his deeds.

In the olden days, only the nobles of the realm had been allowed to carry the royal symbols to the coronation. But Bard the Bowman had already asked valued allies to take part of the ceremony, and his great-grandson was now about to do the same.

Thus, although – according to time-honoured custom – Queen Regath was carrying the crown and Prince Meilyr the sceptre, symbolising the passing of royal dignity from one generation to the next one – Master Otir was given the honour to bear the bow that had slain the Dragon, representing Laketown as the stoutest ally of Dale. Ieuan ap Ifor walked on his side, the Black Arrow resting on a cushion of red velvet upon his outstretched arms.

A similar cushion was given Drizzt to carry the hilt of the Sword of Cardolan upon it. He was paired up with Sir Anarawd, who was bearing the royal mantle: a beautifully embroidered piece of black velvet, said to have been made to the likeness of the original coronation mantle of the Kings of Dale, last worn by King Girion himself and destroyed, together with the old town, by the coming of the Dragon.

At the rear of this small procession strode Drudwas ap Aeddan, the Steward of the King’s House, carrying Girion’s ring in a small _mithril_ casket (a gift of the Dwarves of Erebor to Bard the Bowman) upon another red velvet cushion. Without this ring, no valid document could be sealed, which was the reason why it was considered another vital symbol of royal powers. Next to the casket lay the symbolic keys of the Town Gate.

After the procession came Prince Bard with his bride, Princess Melangell, both clad in long, unadorned gowns of rough, undyed wool. When the proper rites were performed, they would be clad into clothes proper for their newly acquired status as the King and Queen of Dale; right now, they were just two pilgrims on their way to a sacred place.

They were followed by the Knights of Dale, walking in pairs, clad in their festive finery, carrying burning torches. Then came the ladies of the court, then the local nobles, then the leaders of the various armed troops of the realm, then all the respected craftsmen, and finally anyone who wanted to witness the ceremony. Which meant practically the entire population of Dale, _including_ the old and those infirm who could weather the long climb, the small children (many of them on their parents’ arms, and the visitors from Laketown, Birka, Thranduil’s realm, Dor-Lelmin, Erebor, the Iron Hills and all parts of Mirkwood. Or Greenwood the Great, as it was now called again. It seemed to Drizzt that not only had Dale emptied completely, but half of the Wilderland had gathered to see the rebirth of kingship in the ancient realm.

One could only hope that no remaining enemy would find a way into the empty town to wreak havoc in the meantime. Although, knowing the practical mindset of the Men of Dale, Drizzt was fairly certain that they had taken precautions for such an unlikely event, too. They had not held out in this wild country for so long by being careless fools.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The climb to the King’s Seat was a long but not particularly arduous one, following a well-trodden path up one of the southern foothills of the Lonely Mountain. On the shoulder of that rocky outthrust, encircled by a so-called _cromlech_ , a circle of large boulders that had been set just far enough from each other so that a man could pass through between them, a large stone sat, shaped into the form of a comfortable armchair that would suit just any Man of normal stature. It was decoratively marked on its arms, back and seat with ancient Angerthas runes; as Sir Anarawd would alter explain to Drizzt, these markings represented old blessings and good luck spells for the person sitting in the chair.

The chair was shadowed by a huge, ancient oak that created a living canopy above the occupant’s head. And near to that tree, a small, circle-shaped spring could be seen, its bubbling water overflowing the stone bowl and running down on one side of the path as a small rivulet: the holy well of that sacred place.

To this holy well the future king was now led by the nobles of his court. There he was disrobed, ‘til he stood before the eyes of the entire gathering like on the day he was born. Other people might have taken offence, but for the Men of Dale this rite symbolised the end of his life as it had been and his rebirth as their King.

The ladies of the court, lead by his still-veiled mother, washed him with the water of the holy well, as if they’d prepared him for his funeral. Then he stepped into the well and submerged in the water completely, while laments were sung. Drizzt was a bit worried that he might drown, so long did it take, but the young Prince was obviously well prepared… perhaps trained even, for this very rite.

When he emerged from the water again, like a newborn from his mother’s womb, the ladies of the court dried him and clad him into his royal attire: heavy robes in green, silver and blue, the colours of Dale. Then he took a silver coin, wrought to celebrate his birth near nineteen years previous, from Drudwas ap Aeddan and threw it into the well.

At this very moment, dawn broke in its purple glory above the eastern ridge of the Mountain, and huge dark shapes appeared flying upon the reddening skies. Birds they were, but larger than any bird Drizzt had ever seen. The crowd got all excited at the sight.

“The Eagles!” a murmur ran along their rows. “The Eagles have come!”

Drizzt glanced at Sir Anarawd askance. The chief of the Knights of Dale smiled.

“Those are the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains, Sir Drizzt,” he explained. “Perchance the noblest creatures in Middle-earth… aside from the Elves, that is. See the one with the golden collar around his neck? He is their chieftain, Gwaihir the Windlord. The other two are Landroval the Swift and Meneldor. ’Tis a great honour that they would attend to our King’s coronation, as they rarely have any dealings with Men.”

The Eagles made three wide circles above their heads, cried out in great voices, and then flew back in a straight line towards the West.

After this good omen – a clear proof that the Valar were looking at the future King in benevolence – the procession approached the King’s Seat. Queen Regath, her face still obscured by the thin black veil, so that only the glittering of her eyes could be seen, turned to the gathered crowd and held up the Crown of Dale on its velvet cushion.

“People of Dale,” she spoke in a clear voice that could be heard everywhere, “your King has gone to the Halls of Waiting and is now reunited with his forefathers in peace and great honour. Yet he left behind his son to guard you and to lead you to a new era of peace and prosperity. Do you accept Bard son of Brand as you new King?”

“We do,” called the crowd as one, and Drizzt found himself joining them, for the Prince, although fairly young, was no doubt worth wearing the crown.

“Do you trust him to rule you wisely and do you swear your fealty to him, so that the realm may prevail?” asked the Queen.

“We do,” answered the crowd in unison.

“Will you serve him with your labour in peacetime and with weapons in wartime, should war come to our borders again, trusting him to use your lives wisely and for the good of us all?” continued the Queen.

“We will,” answered the people.

The Queen then turned to her son. “Bard son of Brand, dost thou accept the crown of thine forefathers and the duties and responsibilities that come with it?”

“I do,” replied the young Prince, a little pale by the greatness of this moment, towards which he had lived all his life, even though no-one had expected it coming so soon.

“Dost thou swear solemnly that thou shall rule wisely, for the good of thine people?” continued the Queen.

“I do,” answered Bard.

“Dost thou promise to protect them and guide them at thine best of thy abilities and with the help of those who are wise enough to give thee counsels?” asked the Queen.

“I do,” said the Prince.

“Then receive now the crown of thine forefathers as the symbol of thine powers and thine burdens,” announced the Queen, using the old-fashioned phrase reserved for such rare occasions.

Prince Bard kneeled down in the grass before the King’s Seat, and the Queen set the crown upon his brow, while musicians played a festive melody on their _cuits_ (harps), timpans, trumpets, horns and _piobs_ (pipes). Then the Queen helped the new King to his feet and presented him to his subjects, saying: “Beware the King!”

“Hail King Bard! Hail the son of Brand!” the people called with great joy and relief that they were no longer without proper leadership.

The young King raised his hand to the traditional greeting. Then he was seated on the stone Seat again, and Prince Meilyr walked up to him. He went to one knee before his brother and offered him the Sceptre with both hands.

“The Prince Regent of the realm asks to surrender leadership to the rightful King,” he declared.

Bard took the Sceptre. “We thank thee for thy excellent service as our Regent, Prince Meilyr, and ask thee to remain our counsel and support ‘til we grow into our inheritance… and beyond,” he replied. At that, Meilyr rose and took his place behind the throne, where he would stand, symbolically and practically, for the following years.

Sir Anarawd gently nudged Drizzt to remind him of his role, and the Drow kneeled before the King’s Seat and offered the King the shards of _Stangasyando_ , saying, “My lord King, the Blade of Cardolan has done its duty and is no longer a weapon to protect the people. Accept what is left of it as a reminder that thy realm has risen from the ashes of the old, born of great peril.”

King Bard lifted the broken sword – barely more than a hilt, actually – from the cushion and kissed it, right above the place where the blade had been attached to the hilt.

“Ever shall we remember the great deed of _Stangasyando_ , and that of the hand which wielded it,” he said solemnly, laying it back onto the cushion. “Let it be returned to the treasure chambers and hold it in great honour among the heirlooms of our House.”

Drizzt stepped back, giving room for Master Otir, who was approaching the King’s Seat now, his broad face aglow with the honour given him in this most important ritual, and offered the King the legendary bow of his forefather.

“Receive the bow that has slain the Dragon, King of Dale, late progeny of Bard the Bowman,” announced Otir. “As it has once freed us all from the tyranny of the Worm, so may it protect the realm in the future, as long as thine sons and their sons shall wear the Crown of Dale.”

Bard accepted the bow and held it up for everyone to see.

“A bow is only as strong as the arm that bends it,” he declared in a clear, ringing voice. “May it be that we have inherited the sinew of Bard the Bowman as well as his weapon.”

He gave the bow back to Master Otir and turned to Ieuan ap Ifor, who went down on one bent knee before him and offered him the Black Arrow on its velvet cushion.”

“Bard, son of Brand, son of Bain, son of Bard the Bowman,” the Master Archer of Dale spoke slowly and with great emphasis on each name he had named, “accept thy birthright as the King of Dale. Thou art of the blood of Bard, the Dragon Slayer; wear the Black Arrow proudly, in honour of thy forefather, and protect the realm as he protected it.”

Prince Meilyr produced a ceremonial quiver: a very thin one, made of pure silver by the Dwarves of Erebor, meant to contain the Black Arrow alone. King Bard removed the Arrow from its cushion and held it his outstretched hands for a moment.

“Humbly do we accept the Black Arrow that slew the Worm and thus helped our realm to rise from the ashes, after long years of exile,” he said. “’Tis more precious to our heart than all gold and silver, and always shall we remember the sacrifices of our people, upon which our future has been built. Should we ever forget that we are here to serve and protect our people, may the Black Arrow find its way to our very heart.”

He put the arrow into the ceremonial quiver that hung on a fine silver chain and Prince Meilyr laid that chain around his neck, like a collar of honour. Drudwas ap Aeddan came forth now, offering the new King the _mithril_ casket with Girion’s Ring.

“Receive the token of royal power, my King,” said the steward. “May thou use it to the benefit of the people of Dale. Rule wisely, so that thy name may be mentioned with respect and honour, together with those of thine longfathers, by all future generations.”

“’Tis our greatest wish to rule the realm and protect the people as well as we can,” replied King Bard. “Yet even the King is but one man, and the wisdom of one man is not enough for such a heavy burden. Therefore we ask the Lady Regath, Dowager Queen of the realm, to unite us in the bond of _lanamas comthinchuir_ with our chosen bride, the Lady Melangell ferch Anarawd.”

Just as the sun had visibly risen above the Iron Hills on the East, the ladies of the court led Melangell, now clad in her breath-taking gown, made by the Elven seamstresses of Mirkwood, to her future husband. 

According to the time-honoured custom of Dale, they had already fulfilled the requirement of a trial marriage, which had been initiated by the mutual – and public – promise exactly one year ago and included living under the same roof to learn each other’s preferences but _not_ intimacy as it is between husband and wife. Now that the year of trial was over, they could perform the handfasting ceremony, which would bond them together for life – or beyond, as the Queen was not allowed to remarry after the death of her royal spouse, while the King was, due to the need of as many sons as he could sire.

Now Queen Regath removed her veil to show her face to the people of Dale for one last time. After the ceremony, she would go into seclusion in a house separated for the royal widows and never meet anyone face to face again – save her son, should he turn to her for advice. She would not leave the house or its walled garden ever again, unless some great disaster forced her to do so. With the coronation of the new King, she, who belonged to the past, had no purpose any longer, and was expected to stay out of eyesight for the rest of her life.

But that was in the near future. Right now, she had a feast of joy to celebrate: marrying her son to his chosen bride and crowning the new Queen of Dale. 'Twas a ceremony only the Dowager Queen had the right and the power to perform – which was another reason why a widowed King _had_ to remarry. Certain rituals simply could not been performed if there was no rightful Queen.

“People of Dale,” she called out in a joyous voice, “you have the rare privilege to witness your new King being joined in the unbreakable bond of marriage with his future Queen. Do you accept the Lady Melangell ferch Anarawd as the Queen of Dale?”

“We do,” the crowd shouted as one man.

In theory, they could have denied their acceptance, in which case the trial marriage would have been dissolved and King Bard forbidden to have anything to do with Melangell again. In practice, though, people were happy for him and generally agreed that the daughter of Sir Anarawd was more than worthy to share rulership with their King.

Queen Regath now turned to Sir Anarawd, who was standing at his daughter’s side, aglow with pride and happiness for his child, and asked.

“Will the protector of the Lady Melangell consent to relinquishing his responsibility to King Bard; the man she has chosen to bind her very life to?”

“I will,” replied Anarawd, his eyes shining with unshed tears, for despite the great honour, he _would_ give up his beloved daughter, and that was never an easy thing for a father to do.

Queen Regath turned to the Lady Gwenlliant, Anarawd’s wife, who was standing at Melangell’s other side.

“Will the mother of the Lady Melangell release her daughter from the household, so that she can build a family of her own?”

“I will,” said Lady Gwenlliant. She, too, was nearly in tears. Even though she had already married off one daughter – Cuhelyn’s wife, Aline – giving up the younger one as well was not an easy thing for her, either.

Queen Regath smiled at the other woman in understanding. She knew what Lady Gwenlliant was feeling all too well. She had gone through the same thing when releasing Princess Branwen into marriage with Sir Geraint. Then she turned back to the betrothed couple.

“King Bard, Lady Melangell, you have fulfilled the requirements of trial marriage,” she said. “You have lived under the same roof for a full year. You have shared duties and leisure, work and respite. You have learned to know each other in all ways but one. Is it still your wish to be bonded for life in the _lanamas comthinchuir_ , and walk that last way of knowledge together?”

“It is,” they answered in unison. Not that there would have been any doubt, but the marriage rites had to be performed properly, or the marriage would not be valid.

“So be it,” said Queen Regath with a benevolent smile. “Bring the cords!”

Three of the ladies of the court stepped forward, handing the Queen three intricately woven cords: one dark blue, one forest green and one silver, the colours of Dale. Receiving the cords, the Queen now began wrapping them around the forearms of King Bard and Lady Melangell, binding hem tightly together – however, Drizzt noted in amazement, without a single knot. When she was done, she stepped back, so that everyone could see the bonded couple.

“Before your eyes as witnesses, I have bound these two for life,” she announced. “Ere I declare them husband and wife, though, let us test the strength of their bond.”

“What does she mean?” asked Drizzt Master Otir, who happened to stand next to him, in bewilderment. The Lakeman grinned.

“’Tis an old superstition of theirs,” he replied. “Quite amusing, actually. Just watch and you shall see.”

Drizzt shrugged and watched in astonishment as Sir Anarawd stepped up to his daughter and grabbed her free arm. Prince Meilyr, representing the late King Brand, did the same with his brother. At a sign from Queen Regath, they both yanked their respective family member away from his or her future spouse – with a force that could have dislocated the shoulder of any unprepared person. Bard and Melangell _had_ been prepared, of course, knowing all too well what was involved in the handfasting ceremony, but even so, there was a brief flicker of pain upon their faces.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Drizzt, completely dumbfolded.

“As I said: an old superstition,” explained Master Otir with an amused grin. “Had the bonds broken, it would have meant that their bond was not strong enough and the marriage would have been dissolved. A silly custom, but they do believe in it.”

“Has it ever happened?” asked Drizzt. “Have the cords ever broken during such a ceremony?”

Otir shook his head. “Not that I would know. The women of Dale start learning how to make a good marriage bond at the age of six. ‘Tis an art unto itself, I am told, as no knots are allowed. But by the time they reach maturity, they can all do it.”

In the meantime, Queen Regath had unwrapped the arms of the newlyweds, who were beaming with happiness.

“This bond is true and lasting,” she announced. “Hereby I declare King Bard and Lady Melangell husband and wife.”

A great cheer rose from the crowd – apparently, the people of Dale were very proud of the royal family and considered its members as their property, in a way. Then the people calmed down in expectation, as there was _one_ last ceremony to perform before the sun became fully visible: the coronation of the new Queen.

Drudwas ap Aeddan had produced another velvet cushion from somewhere, and was now kneeling before the Dowager Queen, holding the cushion upon his outstretched arms. Queen Regath removed the crown from her own head and held it up for a moment, for everyone to see.

“’Tis the ancient custom of our people that the king and his wife rule the realm in joint authority,” she said. “Such is the nature of the _lanamas comthinchuir_ , the union of two people on joint property, and thus the King’s wife needs to bear the same rank as her husband. Therefore, she needs to be crowned as the Queen of the realm, with the same privileges and responsibilities as those of the King. My King has gone to his forefathers and now rests among them with great honour. ‘Tis my time now to step back from the burdens of kingship and hand over my duties to the one who comes after me.”

She carefully laid down the crown onto the cushion and Drudwas ap Aeddan rose and carried it over to the King’s Seat, where King Bard was now sitting, with the Lady Melangell standing at his left and Prince Meilyr at his right. Princess Eilonwy now hurried forth, placing a low wooden stool before Melangell, so that she would not ruin her beautiful gown by kneeling.

Queen Regath followed them and held up the crown again.

“Melangell ferch Anarawd,” she said solemnly, “thou hast bound thy life to the King of the realm forever. Receive now the symbol of thy new office and rule with him as the Queen of Dale.”

With that, she placed the crown upon Melangell’s brow. Then she helped her to her feet and both turned to the people, and the Dowager Queen called out, “Behold the Queen of Dale!”

There was another great cheer. Princess Eilonwy took the hand of the new Queen and led her to the stone chair, where she was seated on the left of her King, which would be her place for the rest of her life. The old Queen, however, was covered with the long black veil again and led away by her ladies-in waiting, back to the town, to the house of the royal widows, which she would not leave ever again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
King Bard and Queen Melangell spent the rest of the day in the Seat, accepting the oaths of fealty from the Knights of Dale and the nobles of the realm. They were also offered gifts; not overly expensive ones, as the rebuilding of the town required almost everything people would have, but gifts nonetheless. Some of them – the most valuable ones – had come from Dor-Lelmin, Erebor, the Iron Hills, Laketown and Mirkwood; even from as far as Dorwinion, Rivendell or the city of the mysterious King of Arnor and Gondor, who had just recently taken over his own inheritance.

After this was all over, the royal couple made the rest of the pilgrimage to the other side of the hill. There was another stone chair hewn into the rocks; while the King’s Seat faced east and was thus directed to the rising Sun, this one – called the Queen’s Seat – was aligned so that the person sitting in it could watch both the sunset and the rising of the evening star. There the entire crowd waited for the star to emerge, and they sang hymns to the Lady of the Stars, whom the Elves called Elbereth (or Barathí, in the case of the Faithful), and when darkness had fallen, they returned to the town in a procession, with musicians playing their instruments and many people carrying burning torches.

Afterwards, a great feast was held in the King’s House – or, to be more accurate, on the wide square in front of it, so that many, many townspeople could attend. The fare was fairly simple, due to the siege and the losses that had come with it, but no-one remained hungry, and there was wine and ale in great quantities. There was also music and dancing, and jugglers and jesters and many games, and people were merry and looked towards the era of the new King with hope and confidence.

Seated among his fellow Knights of Dale, Drizzt enjoyed the festivities more than he had thought he would. While the music and the dancing did not – _could_ not – reach Elven standards as he knew them from Mirkwood, he found it pretty enough, and dancing with Silinde (and being the envy of every Knight around him) was something he had come to like very much. He danced with other ladies, too, even with the Queen herself, and princess Eilonwy, who seemed not the least bothered by his black skin and purple eyes. He was one of their people now, and even though he did not intend to stay among them, being accepted unconditionally was a wonderful thing.

After the feast, he spent the rest of the night with Silinde, putting the fine bedchamber and the generous bed of the late Sir Mervyn – the former owner of the house – to good use. In the morning, he entrusted the house to Bannâtha and the widow Nest, took his leave from his friends in Dale (who proved to be quite numerous) and returned to Thranduil’s realm in the company of Maelduin the Sage, his family and the Nandor Elves.

The Elvenking had still not returned from the Golden Wood, but life in the Woodland Realm fell back to its normal routine under the experienced regency of Lord Maelduin. Drizzt moved out of the King’s halls, to Silinde’s _talan_ , and after the initial surprise, no-one seemed to mind them being together, not even young Rhimlath, Silinde’s son. The woodland folk knew all too well what loss and loneliness was, and they begrudged no-one a little happiness.

Drizzt began to go out tracking with Alagos again, and patrolling with Silinde’s team of Nandor archers. The darkness was slowly, steadily lifting from the great forest, but there were still very evil places under the trees, places that bred evil things, and as long as there were evil creatures to fight, he was needed.

He found that he liked being needed. Liked living with his own kind, despite their differences. It was _home_ , no matter how long it would last.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are hints in this chapter at my other stories, “The Prisoner of Dol Guldur” and “The Vault of the Dead”, but you don’t have to read those to understand this one.  
> After three years and 30 chapters, this story is finally coming to an end. I might write a sequel about Drizzt’s adventures in the city of the Moriquendi one day, but there are no guarantees. Thanks for staying with me on this long ride, and for the comments and the support.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**EPILOGUE**

Drizzt Do’Urden spent more than a hundred years in the Elvenking’s realm. He led a solitary life, away from the court most of the time, for that fit his nature the best. After a while, with the help of Alagos, he built his own _talan_ in the branches of a great beech, close to that of Silinde’s, but kept visiting her almost daily, when she was at home.

The Wood-Elves got used to his presence easily enough. The Avari – the _Faithful_ – were particularly fond of him as he reminded their elders of their poor kin whom they had freed from the pits of Utumno, loving them and accepting them, despite the fact that those unfortunate ones had been turned into Orcs… or already born as ones.

Only the Elvenking’s older son, found and miraculously rescued from the deepest dungeon of Dol Guldur after more than three millennia of captivity, could not bear his presence. His black skin reminded Eradan too much of his jailers and torturers, the Orcs. While the terribly broken and weakened prince understood that Drizzt was _not_ an Orc – understood with his slowly recovering mind, at least – he could not keep his mindless terror under control whenever he caught as much as a glimpse of the Drow. So Drizzt took great care _not_ to cross the path of Prince Enadar, who did not move around much on his own in the first decades anyway.

King Thranduil was a little embarrassed about the whole affair, and so was Prince Legolas, apologizing for his brother’s behaviour reputedly, but Drizzt waved off his apologies.

“’Tis not your brother’s fault that I remind him of his gaolers,” he said. “That poor Elf suffered impossible pain, being imprisoned for three thousand years, alone and in complete darkness. Surface Elves are not meant to live in darkness. I shall try to avoid him as much as I can. ‘Tis a huge forest; there is room enough for us both. No need to cause him even more distress.”

Prince Legolas thanked him profoundly, and they never talked about it again. However, when in the next year Legolas gathered quite a few younger Elves around himself to go and build a new Silvan colony in the Southern realm of Men, Drizzt accompanied them, for he felt the sudden urge to see more of Middle-earth.

What he saw filled his heart with awe and delight. The Rohirrim reminded him a little of Wulfgar’s people, and the greatness of Gondor amazed him beyond everything he had seen in his previous life. The Men of Gondor, whose kings were related to the Elves, seemed a good and noble people, and even though some of them were a bit wary of the strange Dark Elf, they were nothing but courteous to him.

But the most important encounter happened to him when he was visiting the Stone of Erech: the place where Gondor had been born. The huge, globular black stone, now half-buried in the ground, which – according to legend – had been brought out of the ruins of Númenor, the mythical island-kingdom of Men, and set there by Isildur, the father of the kings upon his landing.

No-one could tell what the actual purpose of the Stone might have been. But it was considered an almost mythical item, and thus sometimes visited by Men with an interest for their own history, despite the rumours of haunted mountains all around it. Even strangers were allowed to see it when they asked for it.

Drizzt found the stone impressive, even half-buried. It must have been at least ten feet in diameter, perfectly smooth and cool to the touch like marble, and deep black in hue. He reached out to lay his hand upon the surface, but a melodic voice stopped him mid-movement.

“Do not touch the Stone, Dark Elf,” said the voice. “It is shrouded; it will show you nothing. As you are alien to it, however, it may react to you in a way you would not find pleasant.”

Drizzt yanked his hand back hurriedly and looked around for the source of that voice. He soon spotted a female Elf, tall and willowy and clad entirely in black, although her tunic was adorned with little white jewels and embroidered with silver thread. Her raven hair was artfully braided away from her pale, fine face, the thin braids woven to an intricate coronet with strings of silver beads, resting upon her back like a great sheaf of crop. Her eyes were black like coal, too, almost glowing under her fine, arched eyebrows. She was unarmed, save for the throwing knives on her back – the same kind the Faithful of the Greenwood preferred to use.

“Greetings,” she said with an elegant bow. “My name is Râmalê. I have been sent to speak to you on behalf of our chieftain.”

“You know me?” asked Drizzt in surprise.

“I know _about_ you,” she corrected. “We still exchange messages with our Northern kin, by way of friendly birds. And some of us visit Queen Lálisin who resides within the Great Ash from time to time. So yea, we have heard about you and your deeds, which is why Morwêndî sent me to speak to you.”

That name finally _did_ ring a bell with Drizzt.

“You are one of the Mori-kwêndî, are you not?” he asked. “One of those who guard the Vault of the Dead.”

“Indeed, I am,” she replied. “And I have come to extend to you an invitation. The Dead who dwell among us are willing to accept your _fêa_ – your spirit – when the time comes for you to shed your body. Yet should you grow tired of a life on the treetops, we who are still alive would welcome you among us as well.”

“Why would you do so?” asked Drizzt in surprise.

“You slew a Nazgûl,” she answered, “and for that, all Elves still dwelling in Middle-earth shall be in your debt. Beyond that, though, we know what it means to be profoundly different from everyone else. Most peoples of Middle-earth live in the sunlight; we do not. We are the children of twilight and starlight, and thus we consider you our kin. Should you ever find living in the harsh light of Anor too burdensome, you will always have a place among us. All you need to do to is to return to this place. We keep constant watch on the Stone; someone will be here to guide you to our hidden city.”

“Perhaps I shall do so, one day,” said Drizzt slowly, thoughtfully, remembering what Alagos had told him about the Dark Elves of Middle-earth.

“Then my work here is done,” she replied – and then she simply vanished. Not even Drizzt’s experienced eyes could tell where she had gone… or how she had done it.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After a year in the South, during which he witnessed Prince Legolas’ wedding with Princess Indreâbhan of Dor-Lelmin and visited the Glittering Caves, the newly-founded Dwarven city ruled by Master Glóin’s son Gimli, Drizzt returned to the Greenwood. There he led a fairly uneventful life for more than a century and was fairly content with it.

Until, about a hundred and twenty years after the war, Prince Legolas finally succumbed to the mysterious condition called the Sea-longing and began to build a grey ship to sail to the West, to Elvenhome. Silinde decided to go with him, and so Drizzt’s main reason to live in the Greenwood was lost. Thus when Silinde started preparations for the long journey to the South, to the Elf-haven of Edhellond from where Prince Legolas’ ship was supposed to sail, Drizzt began to think about changes, too.

“I had a good life in your realm, my Lord King,” he said to Thranduil, “but now I feel I have to move on. The Mori-kwêndî of the South have offered me a place among them, and I think I should go there.”

The Elvenking was loath to see him leave; but he was also distracted by the upcoming departure of Legolas, so he did not fight the Drow’s decision. Drizzt paid a last visit to both Dale and Laketown and also made a trip to Erebor, to take his leave from his friends – or, in the case of Men, rather from the grandchildren of his late friends – and when Silinde and her entourage set off for the South, he joined them for a while.

In Rohan, he said his good-byes to Silinde, too, and it was bittersweet, as he knew he would never see her again. She would go on to the Undying Lands and, ultimately, be reunited with his re-embodied husband. He, on the other hand, would take his proper place among the Dead and their guardians.

He rode to the Stone of Erech alone, accompanied only by his hunting lynx, a progeny of his first friend on Middle-earth, the true-hearted Half-tooth. Once he reached the Stone, he dismounted and simply waited for someone to pick him up.

He did not have to wait for long. Barely had he rested for an hour, the black-clad figure of an Elf appeared nest to the Stone, as if materializing out of thin air. This time, it was a male one, with an angular face and his raven hair tied into a topknot, of which the feathers of some very short arrows were peeking out. He wore shadow-grey clothes that blended with the rock around them, and had a blowing pipe in one hand and throwing knives on his back.

“Greetings, Drizzt Do’Urden of the House _Daernon N'shezbaernon_ ,” he said. “I am Spanturo, one of the mountain scouts. I have come to take you home.”

~The End~

Soledad Cartwright@27-06-2010


End file.
